The Last Second Chance
by MandibleBones
Summary: Once upon a time, there was an 11-year-old Wizard who learned the Power of Love and True Friendship. With his friends by his side, he defeated the great and terrible Dark Lord Voldemort and saved the Wizarding World forever. This is not that story.
1. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

**A Slytherin at War**

Once upon a time, there was a young boy in Britain. When he was 11 years old, he traveled on a magical journey to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he discovered the many joys of magic. Over the course of seven years, with the mentorship of a powerful wizard, he learned the Power of Love and True Friendship, and with his friends by his side, he defeated the terrible Dark Lord Voldemort and saved the Wizarding World forever.

This is not quite that story.

_**A Slytherin at War**_** Part 1:**

**Draco Malfoy and the Last Second Chance**

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 1: Platform Nine and Three Quarters**

_**In which Draco Malfoy returns from the future and nearly falls the hell over.**_

"_103: My commander is not old enough to have fought in the Civil War, and I should stop implying that he did."_

- 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I straightened myself on the platform, struggling to keep my balance. Mother of Merlin, here I was again. It actually worked. Sweet Zombie Grindelwald, it actually worked. That definitely explained the pain in my head – that, and the sixteen layers of hair gel gluing my platinum locks to my skull like a particularly thick helmet. Stars and stones, I can't believe it took me two years to grow out of that hairstyle the first time. As soon as I get to the common room, the gel will be the first up against the wall when the Revolution comes.

My father was lecturing quietly, and I turned to at least act like I was paying attention to the tall man with hair that half the witches in Britain would have killed for. That, of course, isn't even counting the couple of witches who actually followed through on that threat.

"Remember, Draco," he said, "You are better than this rabble and have an obligation to show it." I tried my best to keep my trademark sneer on my face while looking over the platform's occupants, and tried even harder to keep the flash of sudden loss and sudden gain from my face as I saw people who, when I last laid my blue eyes upon them, were lifeless corpses. Or worse. Lucius, of course, was still talking.

"Our family is the finest in Wizarding Britain, and by extension, the entire world," the man who abandoned Voldemort for me said. He hadn't actually done it yet, but then – thankfully – the Dark Lord was a few years from returning this time. I had time to prepare before his inevitable return, and this time, the finest family in Wizarding Britain would be on the right side. No matter what. Even if I had to drag Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy kicking and screaming.

"So do make me proud this year," father added. "You're a Malfoy, so I expect nothing less. 'Ours is the Glory'," he finished, quoting the Malfoy family motto. The official one, anyway. The unofficial motto, 'Do not FUCK with House Malfoy,' wasn't exactly something you could quote to an eleven-year-old before boarding a train, even if that eleven-year-old was secretly an eighteen-year-old time-traveler in his old body and keeping that secret from everyone, including his beloved father.

"Thank you, father, I'll keep that at the front of my mind," I drawled, not disrespectfully. "Still no chance you've managed to convince the board of governors to rescind that ridiculous 'no brooms for first-years' rule, I assume?" I distantly recalled that being important to me when I was eleven, and writing a rather petulant letter once Potter got his spot as the Boy-Who-Scored. Lucius scowled.

"No, but study hard, and I'll make sure you have the best by next year," he said. "Only the best for a Malfoy, of course." I bit back the urge to sneer, reminding myself that my father had a lot of growing up to do still – and at this point in my own history, I had even more. The memory of being bought onto the Slytherin team still rankled, though. I am, after all, a Malfoy, and pride has always been our sin _du jour_.

I nodded my agreement – and yes, I would absolutely study hard. Lesson one of warfare: the Muggle Boy Scouts are right. If you enter a battle unprepared, you've already lost. I knew the moment I stepped into the Room of Requirement after the last battle that I was signing up to fight a war again, and I damn sure planned to win it this time.

As Dobby loaded my chests, filled with silly little trinkets (only some of which would be useful to me in the coming conflict), onto the gleaming red and gold Hogwarts Express (Salazar's teeth, even the train was biased toward the bloody Gryffindors, come to think about it), I took stock of the platform.

The giant clock at King's Cross read 10:30 a.m.; father and I were more than on time. Of course, with father's appearances to maintain, I expected no less. Arriving early, of course, meant limited interaction with the Weasley clan, which for the moment was a good thing. There was, after all, nothing but bad blood – pun not intended, though I would surely have to work that in somewhere later – between my father and the red-headed patriarch of that consanguineous mob of blood-traitors. I sighed at the thought – I really needed to stop thinking of them that way, or it would start to come out in my speech, which would at this juncture be counter-productive.

I closed my eyes, leaning against one of the barriers to the platform, and began to re-arrange my thoughts. I built a bucket in my mind, hung a sign on it that said "casualties of war," and began dumping terms into it. "Blood Traitor" went in first, followed by "Half-Breed" and "Mudblood." I did keep "Insufferable Know-it-all" out of that bucket, since I knew I'd find more use for it than I cared to admit as soon as Granger showed up, but that wasn't terribly offensive so much as it was an uncomfortable truth. A few more terms went in as well before I slammed down a mental lid on the bucket and literally threw it toward the back of my mind. As I opened my eyes again, I even heard it clang.

I might as well have left my eyes closed – opening them was clearly a mistake for the unprepared. Two living corpses – or so they appeared to my eyes before my mind caught up with my sight – blundered toward me on the platform. Vincent Crabbe, last seen burning to death in his own Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden Things, held his own massive duffle over his shoulder with one enormous hand, leaving the second arm free for more important things, like stuffing his face with what was likely his second breakfast. Accompanying him was Gregory Goyle, whose final demise I hadn't witnessed, "merely" coming across his body, lying with no visible wound, on the line of fallen students after Potter put paid to Voldemort.

"Never again," I whispered to myself. "Even one more death is too many. Never again, you manky half-blood terrorist."

Goyle was less interested in stuffing his face than he was in preparing for later, as both his shoulders appeared to be occupied with bags. From past experience, I knew the enormous bags were even more roomy on the inside, having been charmed for both space and ease of carrying. Still, Goyle stumbled under their weight, having apparently decided to bring an entire gymnasium's worth of weights to his first year at Hogwarts.

"Crabbe, Goyle, all right?" I queried with the slightest hint of a drawl to hide the tremor in my voice. Their faces lit up, in so much as faces such as theirs have that capability, and I waited until they'd loaded their own overstuffed baggage onto the Bias-Against-Slytherin Express before changing the amused look to one requesting an answer. Crabbe, ever the slightest bit brighter than his companion, answered for him.

"All right. Good summer?" Dear Merlin, he's managed multiple syllables. Ten points to Slytherin, or it would be if we'd been sorted yet. I nodded, though I couldn't for the life of me remember if the summer before my first year had been decent, terrible, or some eldritch combination of the two. I did fight back memories of my actual last summer, that turbulant time between my botched Dumbledorian assassination attempt and Voldemort's in-every-way-more-successful assassination of Rufus Scrimgeour. 'Good summer' would have been just short of blatant lies describing that fiasco, but I did manage to learn something. Of course, the idea of THAT being a good thing would be lost on both Crabbe and Goyle at this point. Hence the simple nod.

"Got everything you need?" I asked, and Goyle's look of confusion – not entirely out of place on his pudgy face – reminded me that I'd never been considerate of my fellow first-years needs, even these two, who I'd known since we were toddlers. I looked over to the adults, where Crabbe and Goyle Senior were chatting with father. I met his blue eyes and tossed off a quick and somewhat irreverent salute, which garnered a raised eyebrow and – dare I say it – the slightest hint of approval. "Come on," I told my flunkies – since apparently they weren't yet my friends – and we moved toward the train.

Oh, yes, I would have to do something about this. I'd seen Crabbe and Goyle move with precision and teamwork before – they weren't the best pair of beaters Slytherin had ever had, but they did manage to give the Weasley twins a run for their money for a game or two, without the benefit of being twins. Add to that the advanced spellwork I'd seen them eventually master – Goyle's "diss-lusionment charms" and Crabbe's ill-fated Fiendfyre, just to name a pair, and I got the feeling I had greatly underestimated two very important assets in my war. Of course, the first time around, I hadn't known I was fighting a war until I had my wand pointed at the Headmaster with Aunt Bellatrix whispering madness into my ear.

This time would be different. If the Sorting Hat could be said to have a theme, it was all the houses of Hogwarts needed to stand united as one to survive the coming conflict. Thankfully, it was wrong – Hogwarts did just fine without most of Slytherin House – but the losses were unacceptable. I had no intention of seeing my classmates lying on a slab again.

No Goyle, his life clearly ended by the Killing Curse, lying next to tiny muggle-born Colin Creevey. No Fred Weasley, half of the only part of that particular family worth remembering, dead from a Death Eater's wand. No Crabbe, burnt alive by his own curse, a child soldier fighting a war that he didn't even have the capacity to understand. No hearing Lovegood's wails from the basement. No watching a Hogwarts teacher be eaten. No standing in front of a madman, scared shitless that the wrong word would spell doom for me, for my family, and knowing the right word would kill three people I couldn't stand but couldn't stand to watch die. Like Hell I would let it happen again.

The Wizarding World had seen years of Gryffindors fighting wars – Dumbledore's duel with Grindelwald, Longbottom's totally-unexpected heroics, and of course, Precious Saint Potter. Hogwarts had certainly seen the way Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs fought – Fenrir Greyback's head would never be the same after Ravenclaw's resident lunatic – no, the other one – dropped a crystal ball on it, and anyone watching Ernie MacMillan defend the gates of Hogwarts against six Death Eaters at once would never doubt Hufflepuff's undying loyalty. But with the sole exception of double-agent Severus Snape and reluctant force of nature Horace Slughorn, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never seen my house fight a war.

I resolved to show the school, the Wizarding World and that thrice-damned hat something they'd never seen before. I would need a large discretionary budget for explosives, of course, but that could be obtained. With cunning, ambition, wit and guile, I intended to lead a campaign that would make Salazar proud. I would show the world something it hadn't seen in years: a Slytherin at War.

With that cheerful thought, I boarded the Hogwarts Express.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: This fic was written entirely during National Novel Writing Month 2010, and has been edited only in the loosest sense of the term (notes and such removed, bits about head crabs in the forbidden forest expunged, et cetera). If Draco seems a bit OOC, realize that this Draco has been through all seven books as written in canon (minus the epilogue; while I like little Scorpius, he's not exactly here, is he?), and for his enlightened self-interest is attempting to make a change. He's still a little prat, and hopefully he'll grow a little more as the story goes on. So there that is. -mb**


	2. The Hogwarts Express

**Chapter 2: The Hogwarts Express**

_**In which Draco makes a girl cry, and somewhat regrets it.**_

"_119. I cannot arrest children for being rude."_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I actually had twenty minutes to myself before Crabbe and Goyle joined me in the cabin. I told them the snack trolley wouldn't be operational until the train was, but listing to rational advice wasn't yet their strong point. I could start to fix that after my nap. I'd had precious few opportunities to sleep during the final days of the war, and while my body might have only been awake since eight this morning, my mind felt the full weight of being active for forty-eight hours straight. This demanded attention.

I had barely dozed off, or so it seemed to my sleep-addled mind, when I felt the train begin to move. I stood carefully and left the cabin to find the water closet, at the very least in an attempt to splash some water in my face before having to face the world. I did manage to make it before being accosted, but no sooner had I left it than I was presented with the face that launched a thousand shits.

A study in early _canis lupis familiaris,_ specifically of the pug persuasion, Pansy Parkinson's face wasn't the first thing I wanted to see upon waking up fully. Hell, I'd made that decision a long time ago, and her personality made her face look positively tame by comparison. Attractive, even. So there was little reason, I reasoned, to pay attention to her. Unfortunately, she seemed determined to pay attention to me, and in lieu of her clamping her fangs onto my ankle, I turned to face her.

"What, Parkinson?" I asked, gritting my teeth. The old families all knew each other by reputation at least, so the slight bit of hesitation that showed on her face should have been a tip off that something was wrong. Still, she'd proven herself persistant before, and there was no reason she wouldn't be now.

"Draco, I wanted to sit with you! I 'm so excited we're going to be in Slytherin together. It's so much better than those other houses, which makes it perfect for us, since we're better than those other people-" and I cut her off before she could get to the part in the tirade where father was her hero and she wanted to be just like both of us.

"Parkinson, go the hell away," I said, clearly illustrating the exhaustion-driven disconnect between my brain and my vocal cords. "Seriously, just dissappear. You're worse than a waste of space." I think half of Gryffindor House would have paid money to see the look on her face. Slytherin had certainly never seen it. It's a shame I wasn't paying enough attention, or I might have caught the mild terror and deep hurting beneath the abject shock. I didn't, of course, so I just continued right on. "Have you ever had an original thought in your tiny little head? Or has your entire life been patterned after your mother? Are you ruining my otherwise-pleasant morning with your screeching because you think it might make you more interesting to me, or just to appease some fantasy of one day marrying the rich pureblood so you can pass on your vapid shell of a life to your own daughter some day?"

You'd think I'd rehearsed it. I was certainly channeling my godfather – Professor Snape would have been proud. By this point, some of the other students had stuck their heads out of their cabins. I noticed Finnegan's face, strangely unsullied by explosive residue, in particular. Even a couple sixth-years were watching as Pansy Parkinson, the Terror of Slytherin to Be, burst into tears, pushed her way past me, and ran weeping from the traincar to another.

"What?" I snarled at the audience, causing more than a few heads to shrink back into their hiding holes as I stalked down the corridor to where Crabbe and Goyle waited to join me, hands full of candy and eyes full of hope for further amusement. I raised an eyebrow at Crabbe, who seemed itching to say something. "Well?"

"Harry Potter's on this train!" Crabbe said. "We should go point at him and laugh!" I bit back a sigh. A confrontation with Potter was the last thing I wanted right now, and if I remembered right, Weasley was with him as well. Even less than Potter, I didn't want to look Weasley in the eyes while I recalled his saving my life. Twice. Bastard.

"Come on, Draco, please?" Goyle whinged. Gregory Goyle is a champion whinger. Between that, Quidditch and eating, I thought for a long time he had discovered his lot in life: he could easily have gone on to work for the Daily Prophet as a food critic or a sports commentator, whinging professionally for the rest of his existence until a heart attack at the age of thirty. I cringed inwardly at my unfair assessment; in hindsight, it was much harsher. Not only had Goyle demonstrated more competence than I'd ever given him credit for, he'd also never made it to twenty, let alone thirty. With that sad thought in mind, I relented to their request.

We swaggered down the corridor like we owned it, something we'd done the first time around as well. This time I was more concerned with making sure my wand was ready in case the two buffoons – or Crabbe and Goyle, come to that – provoked a fight. But we reached Potter's cabin without incident, without even a detour, as my toadies' hands were full, preventing another stop at the trolley.

"So, the rumors are true," I drawled. "I'd like to apologize for not recognizing you in Diagon Alley, Potter. Also, I may have had some unkind words for your friend. Don't make too much of it, okay?" I would never be able to pull of contrite. Even while spitting out an apology, my words seemed haughty and superior in tone, a tone not lost on Weasley, who was glaring openly at me. I sneered right back.

"These is Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle," I introduced, gesturing to my two hulking – for first-years – companions. "In answer to your unspoken questions, no, they are my friends, no, they are not related to me, trolls or each other, and no, you can not have your own." I almost got a smirk out of Potter there. I still think he was trying to put on a good face for Weasley. Speaking of the ubiquitous ginger, I turned my gaze on him.

"No need to ask who your friend is. Father always said the Weasleys all have red hair, hand-me down robes and-" _More children than they can afford, _I thought, then bit off the comment I was about to make. He _had_ saved my life, and the one thing my father did admit to respecting about Arthur Weasley was his devotion to his family. "More balls than brains," I finished lamely, and was rewarded for my new choice of phrase with a bewildered look on Weasley's face, like he couldn't be sure whether to be complimented or insulted. I suspected I should leave before Potter figured out the answer for him.

"Anyway, see you at the sorting, Potter. I doubt you'll be with us in Slytherin, but if Weasley here can make it to Gryffindor, I suspect you can manage to stay out of Hufflepuff House as well." With that, and an arrogant swish of robes I modeled after my Godfather, we left the compartment door.

"And what, precisely, is less-than-to-be-desired in regards to Hufflepuff House?" I heard an imperious voice from behind me. I turned, slowly, to meet the glowering eyes of that house's heroes, several years before he would become that hero. "I'll have you know my entire family has been in Hufflepuff, and as you are no doubt aware, the MacMillans are hardly less than successful," that family's youngest scion boasted, but the anger in his eyes left the boast less lighthearted than it was probably intended.

"That is true," I admitted. "Assuming of course that you are Ernest MacMillan of the Inverness MacMillans." The glower continued. "I'll take that as a yes."

"You would be correct in that assumption, and correct is more than I can say for your other actions this morn," MacMillan said, and my mind wasn't asleep enough to miss the quiet contempt in his voice. "Miss Parkinson is inconsolable, though no less than three other first-years are presently trying. What, precisely, were you thinking?"

I blinked. _Ernie "Loyal and True" MacMillan_ was confronting me over my treatment of _Pansy "Spiteful Bitch" Parkinson?_ I... I didn't even know what to say.

"Clearly you were _not_ thinking!" he continued. "I would be with them, attempting to staunch the flow of tears, but since two of them are young women and one is of Muggle descent, meaning you would ignore him, it falls to me to confront my fellow pureblood with his despicable actions and demand a formal apology!" I still had no idea what to say. Goyle attempted to say something for me, which was never a good idea in any event.

"Shut up, you filthy Mudblood!" he tried. Oh, Gregory. A swing and a miss, and you were such a good beater, too. I held up a hand.

"Goyle, stuff that mess. MacMillan's in the right, and in any case he's a pureblood," I said, and Crabbe snickered. "Besides, don't let them catch you using that word at school." Crabbe and Goyle took my admonishment as an attempt to keep them from trouble, which was good. Unfortunately, it looked like MacMillan took it the same way, which was... less so.

"How very, very like a Malfoy," he said, and his voice was the coldest I'd ever heard from the future Hufflepuff. "I retract the request," he added. "I don't want your apology, and I doubt Miss Parkinson would either. Stay the hell away from her," he added, and I wasn't tired enough to miss the threat as he stalked away.

I spent the rest of the trip to Hogwarts sleeping in my cabin. My tired mind was going to get me into more trouble than anything else if I didn't get rest soon. Thankfully, I'd learned that lesson – and one more besides. The Unofficial Malfoy Motto might as well be the unofficial motto of the house of the badger as well: Do not FUCK with Hufflepuff.


	3. Hogwarts School of Wtchcrft and Wizardry

**Chapter 3: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

_**In which our **__**hero**__** protagonist is called out on his attitude and rejoins Slytherin House.**_

"163. Take that hat off._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I'd forgotten how beautiful Hogwarts was at night.

Rubeus Hagrid, giant beast of a man that he was, met us first-years at the Hogsmeade station. His beard, black as the pit and singed here and there, was itself taller than I was. I admit I hadn't thought much of him in the past; he was, to an outsider's view, a bumbling fool with more foolish courage than intelligence, a Gryffindor through and through but not one to be admired.

Of course, that was before I'd seen him go hand-to-claw with a colony of acromantulas bare handed during the final battle, and see him take stunner after stunner before he finally went down. If anyone beside Potter could withstand the killing curse, I had no doubt that Hagrid would appear at the top of that list.

"Firs' years, over here!" he called. Well, admiration or not, that bellow was mildly annoying. Crabbe, Goyle and I made our way to the boats, ignoring Potter as he introduced Weasley to Hagrid. We clambered into a boat on our own and were ready to push off before we heard a boistrous Irish voice from behind us.

"You lot mind if I join you?" Seamus Finegan asked, not waiting for an answer before the explosion-waiting-to-happen climbed in beside me. "That was a fair brilliant bit of smackdown you laid on Parkinson, by the way," he added. "Probably out of line, but beautiful to see, nonetheless." Crabbe and Goyle smirked. Apparently, the angry young Belfast resident had made a positive impression. I snorted.

"You a pureblood?" Crabbe asked. I was really going to have to work that into conversation somehow; questions like that would only serve to further alienate Slytherin. Finnegan, for his money, took it in stride, shaking his head.

"Naw. I'm half and half – me ma's a witch, me da was a Muggle. Bit of a shock for him when he found out, of course," he added, and my newly-rested mind picked up the undercurrent of resentment there. "Walked right out. Me ma raised me ever since." Crabbe nodded, clearly satisfied. Goyle even expressed the first positive emotion I remember out of him.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, much to Crabbe's shock. "Glad your mum managed." I realized to my chagrin, that I knew next to nothing about Crabbe and Goyle's families beyond their fathers' employment with my father.

My silence was infectious, apparently, as the boat became quite quiet. Some of that, of course, could be attributed to the sudden view of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a gorgeous half-moon rising over the Astronomy Tower and the lights from the castle mixing with the moonlight and shining on the Black Lake. Crabbe and Goyle gasped, Finnegan crossed himself, and even I, who had seen this before many times, couldn't stifle a look of awed admiration.

"And we get to go to school there," Finnegan breathed out, and I had to agree. Wizards in Britain were well and truly blessed or lucky to attend Hogwarts, something I had taken for granted until Voldemort's reign of terror barred anybody who couldn't prove blood status from attending. Even my father, for all his pure-blood mania, had looked vaguely sick at that – though by that point, it was likely caused simply be recognition that he had been following a madman.

"Yes," I answered smugly, feeling it was the only appropriate emotion. "Yes we do."

A stern-haired witch I recognized from several detentions in the future-past met us at the door after we passed under the castle.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the professor said. "I am Professor McGonagall. In a few moments, you will join the rest of your schoolmates for a feast in the Great Hall. However, you must first be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin." Muttering broke out among the assembled first-years. "While you're here, your houses will be like your family. Your accomplishments will earn your house points, and any rulebreaking," I swear, at this point, she took a long hard look at me, Weasley and a couple others, "will lose you points." Weasley audibly gulped. I just put on a quiet smile as we followed McGonagall into the Great Hall.

The Sorting Hat's song hadn't changed since the first time around, but then, there was no reason it should have. An introduction, a verse each for Gryffindor where dwell the brave at heart, the just and loyal Hufflepuff, wise old Ravenclaw and cunning Slytherin, and its final pun before great applause by the already-seated students and staff table.

"Abbott, Hannah!" called the diminutive Professor Flitwick from the front of the hall. The pigtailed, blond witch walked forward nervously, but the hat wasn't on her head for more than a moment before it sang out, "HUFFLEPUFF!" as if it were so drunk on firewhisky it was in danger of catching on fire.

The sorting continued as it had the first time, with little variation. I supposed not much change was in the works from just one train ride, and resigned myself to a decent feast with few surprises. I even got my wish before they got the the Fs and "Finnegan, Seamus" was sorted into Slytherin with only the slightest hesitation.

"Hmm, that's new," I murmured, before I realized I was saying it out loud.

"What's new?" queried a bushy-haired eleven-year-old in front of me, predictably sticking her nose where it really didn't belong. I raised an eyebrow.

"Was I talking to you? I wasn't aware." She huffed, crossing her arms in indignation as "Finch-Fletchly, Justin" made his predictable journey to the Hufflepuff table behind us.

"I was just expressing interest," she said, and I couldn't help smirking.

"So you're set for Ravenclaw, then?" I asked, as "Goldstein, Anthony" headed to the House in question and Goyle marched toward the hat to take his invariably quick sorting and join Crabbe in Slytherin. I had the satisfaction of seeing, for possibly the first time in my life, Hermione Granger without anything to say.

The hat saved her, calling her up before the silence got any more awkward.

"GRYFFINDOR!" it called out. Well, that was rather predictable, though I likely wouldn't have called it the first time around. Of course, the first time around I hadn't given the slightest bit of a damn where anybody but me was sorted, so I suppose there's that, too.

Several other less-than-important people were sorted, including at least one more change – Morag MacDougal, a young witch who I was never really sure existed, was sorted into Gryffindor instead of... I had no idea. I didn't recall her being in any of my classes last time, though, so she wasn't a Gryffindor before. Huh.

Before I knew it, it was my turn, and I made a point to put a little swagger in my steps as I walked down the aisle to meet my destiny. Last time, the hat had sorted me to Slytherin without even touching my head. This time, at least, it managed to settle fully over my blond hair without saying anything. I wondered if it meant I was hard to sort.

"_WHAT THE PONCING HELL IS THIS!"_ the hat bellowed. I nearly fell off the chair.

"_I beg your pardon?"_ I thought back at it. I could swear it was sputtering.

"_As well you should,"_ it said. _"You've been sorted before, and... came back? Is that what this is?"_ it snarled, and I could feel it creeping into my thoughts. I brought up mental defenses, just as my deranged aunt had instructed, but the Sorting Hat apparently wasn't bound by mortal magick. _"Yeah, like that's going to keep me out,"_ it snorted. _"The war was WON, and you came back? For what?"_

"_Too many people I cared about died,"_ I thought back at it. _"I couldn't let that happen." _The hat scowled. I'm not even sure how it learned to do that, but trust me, it scowled. You live with Lucius Malfoy long enough, you learn to identify a scowl pretty quickly.

"_For a Slytherin, you really are a horrible liar,"_ it said. _"You came back because you couldn't take the shame of having backed the wrong side."_ A sinking sensation came into my stomach just then, but I did at least attempt to defend my actions.

"_Hey, I'm not making that mistake again,"_ I said. _"Put me in whatever house you want, but I'm not joining the Dark Lord this time around."_ It snorted again. It really was good at it for a piece of clothing with no nostrils.

"_You think that makes you a good person? That you're noble and heroic? Is that it?"_ it queried. _"Perhaps you want to be sorted into Gryffindor this time around?"_ To my credit, I did at least keep the shudder of revulsion from being too visible, though I'm relatively certain a couple at the staff table caught it. The hat did too, of course. _"Just as well,"_ it continued. _"You're not getting within ten feet of being sorted to the noble house of Gryffindor, not after making an 11-year-old girl cry on the train. Seriously, what the hell was that about? Miss Parkinson hasn't actually done anything this time, especially to you."_ That sinking feeling was back with a vengeance, and the mild stomache upset that had been following me ever since MacMillan called me out in the train was getting worse.

"_So I might have been wrong!"_ I admitted. _"I didn't think that through, I was tired, and-"_ The hat cut me off.

"_I am quite aware you didn't think it through,"_ it said. _"Not that you had any chance of getting into Ravenclaw anyway, since you apparently can't ask the question 'why' without lying to yourself about the answer." _I must have seemed confused at that, for the hat answered an unspoken question. _"Think about it later. You'll figure it out."_ I swore. I had a sneaking suspicion regarding where I was about to be put. However, the hat had other plans. _"No, it said. You'll not be going to Hufflepuff House. I really do think it might help you be that better person you keep lying to yourself about wanting to be, but unfortunately, I can't sort you there." _This time I really was confused.

"_Can't?"_ I asked. _"What do you mean, can't?"_

"_Young Mister Ernie MacMillan has threatened to tear me apart thread by thread, set the threads on fire, and scatter the ashes over the monkey hut at the London Zoo if I let you anywhere near Hufflepuff House,"_ the hat admitted, and I think it almost sounded apologetic. _"I believe him, of course, and don't bother trying to convince me you can protect me, since if Dumbledore can't do it, you sure as hell can't." _Working with logical options, I did come up with a conclusion.

"_So I _am_ going back to Slytherin, yes?" _I asked, not sure if there even was another answer. The hat sighed.

"_I couldn't have put you anywhere else," _it admitted. _"As I said before, you're already sorted." _I opened my eyes wide at that.

"_Then why in Salazar's name did we have this conversation?"_ I asked, indignant. The hat's tone changed, and I shivered on the stool.

"_To attempt to teach you something about your actions, which I have clearly failed to do," _it said, and there was that scowl again. _"I suggest you learn to take responsibility for your actions and clean up your act, or your Grandchildren's Grandchildren will never make it to another house. _SLYTHERIN!" it screamed, and of course it was audible to everyone.

Then in burst into flame and the rest of the sorting was Dumbledore and random draws from a pack of cards. Zacharius Smith challenged him to a game of rock, paper, sword, beat him, and won Professor McGonagall a lot of money.

Actually, I just left the stool and handed the hat off to "Nott, Theodore," and made my stunned way to the table with the green and silver banners, but you can see where my mind was going after my sorting.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: Yes, the sorting changed. Yes, I put Seamus in Slytherin - I can't recall whether Sorty's indecision on putting him in Gryffindor versus Slytherin is canon or just prevalent fanon, but it works here. Pansy, desiring popularity beyond all reason, follows the people who've been taking care of her to Hufflepuff. Morag goes to Gryffindor as a shout-out to DAYD, where McGonagall wished she was one of hers, and I'm pretty sure I put Zacharias Smith in Ravenclaw (despite it being my favorite house), as I've never been sure how he ended up in Hufflepuff in the first place, attitude like his. -mb**


	4. Settling In

**Chapter 4: Settling In**

_**In which Draco does not give two shits about Harry James Potter.**_

"162. Past lives have absolutely no effect on the chain of command._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I moved into the Slytherin dorms feeling more than a little out of my element. I hadn't paid attention to the rest of the sorting, merely eating my food in a mild state of shock as Dumbledore listed off the rules and welcome, welcome, welcomed us to another year at Hogwarts. I did, however, notice my room-mates once I moved in, as we had a mild round table once we'd dumped our trunks by our beds, the better to unpack at some unspecified future time.

"Good evening, fellow Slytherins," Theodore Nott said, starting off the meeting. Mild didn't mean informal, of course, it just meant that we were able to bring our hot chocolate down from the Great Hall and enjoy it while we plotted. "As you may know, I am Theodore Nott. You can call me Theo or Nott, but not Theodore." He nodded to the young black man sitting to his right.

"Blaise Zabini," he said, barely paying attention to the meeting, his feet on the table and a copy of the Daily Prophet's sports section in his hands. Trust Blaise to cultivate an air of aloof indifference in his first year. Nott scowled – nowhere near as good as father, but comparable to the Sorting Hat, at least.

"Seamus Finnegan," said the Irishman sitting between Blaise and I. "I may have missed something," he added, twiddling with his wand, "But what is it we're all doing-" sparks flew from his wand and his mug of hot chocolate exploded in his face. "here?" he finished, a little disoriented. Nott waved his hand.

"When we're done with introductions." He motioned to me to go next.

"Draco Malfoy, as you damn well know, Nott," I said, "Since we've had primary classes together since we were six." Nott scowled, putting a little more effort into it this time, and I resolved to tell him he was trying too hard. "And I'd prefer to be addressed by first name." That was new, actually, but I was seriously sick of hearing my father's name every time someone addressed me, and I needed better memories of my given name.

"Gregory Goyle," Goyle said, "and this guy's Vincent Crabbe. We've known Malf– sorry, um, Draco, for years." I smirked.

"Yeah, but you two have been best friends for something like ever before that," I pointed out. Goyle got a look on his face like he'd never really thought about it before. Nott cleared his throat, banging his mug down in an imitation of a judge calling for order.

"Anyway, this isn't an official plotting session," Nott said, "But generally, we do these sort of things once weekly here in Slytherin. It's traditional," he added, seeing Seamus' confused face. "So in the interest of tradition, is there any new business?" He looked up expectantly. Crabbe raised his hand tentatively, and for a moment, I was rather proud of him. He didn't even look to me for permission first. Then, of course, he opened his mouth.

"Harry Potter's in our year." There was muttering all around the table, and Nott shook his head sagaciously.

"Indeed," he said. "Comments? Concerns?" I raised my hand. "Draco?"

"Seriously, I could not give two shits about Harry Potter," I said. "I'd like to table the matter until he does something interesting." Nott smirked.

"Other than defeating the Dark Lord, who will return?" he said, ignoring Seamus' incredulous look. I smirked right back, having had a few more years to practice mine, and affected my best drawl.

"When he was one, sure," I said. "Like anybody can control themselves at that age. Motion to table," I added, almost as an afterthought. To my surprise, Blaise raised his hand.

"Seconded," he said. "I couldn't give two shits for anybody here, so not giving one for Potter isn't out of my way." I raised my mug in mock salute before draining it. Nott scowled. One day, that expression was going to get stuck on his face, and I hoped I was there to see it when it did.

"Fine. Motion to table has been proposed and seconded. All in favor?" Everyone but Nott and Crabbe raised their hands, with Crabbe giving Goyle an incredulous look. Goyle just shrugged. "Opposed?" Crabbe raised his hand. "Motion carries with one abstention," Nott finished. "Any other business?" To my surprise, Seamus raised his hand. "Mr. Finnegan?"

"Seamus, please," he said. "I'm not certain I'm saying this formal enough, but can we open the floor for discussion of Quidditch?" There was a round chorus of agreement, and Nott smiled.

"I'll take that as a motion to adjourn, so you all can discuss your little sport," he said pompously. "And I'll second it myself. All in favor?" The entire table, Nott included, raised hands. "Carries unanimously." At this point I realized that he'd had a quill out the entire time, and it was taking notes as we spoke. I pointed at it.

"Minutes, Theo? Really?" I'd been under the impression Slytherin House was more a nest of vipers, not a boardroom. I'd certainly never held formal meetings when I'd been the Prince of Slytherin – and then it hit me. I wasn't anymore. I'd tried to come in and take over the first-years before, and this time, since I had no desire to actually rule with an iron fist, Nott's ambition put him in charge. Huh. He smiled at me, no malice in the grin, and I suspected there was hope for him after all.

"Anyway," Seamus was saying, "I know it's been something like fifty years since a first-year made the house team, especially in Slytherin, but I'm itching to try out all the same." Crabbe and Goyle nodded their agreement, and I beamed. Even if they didn't make it as Beaters this year, Flint would keep them in mind for next year and maybe get them a bit of training in the process.

"I'm in for tryouts," Blaise said, putting down the sports section and joining the conversation. "I'm the best there's ever been with a Quaffle at my age, and that's for damn sure," he boasted. I smiled. Blaise hadn't been a bad chaser, that was for sure. Seamus, however, got a crafty glint in his eye.

"Care to place a little wager on the outcome of tryouts, then, seeing as I'll be going for chaser myself?" he asked. Blaise smirked.

"You're on, little half-blood," he said. "Most goals in tryouts gets the other a case of butterbeer. How you do that is up to you," he added. "You're a Slytherin, you'll figure it out." Seamus grinned impishly back at him.

"I won't have to," he said. "I don't intend to lose." Now it was Blaise's turn to grin.

"You sure you're not a Gryffindor?" he cracked, but lost his smile the same time Seamus lost his. "What's wrong?"

"The hat wanted to put me there," Seamus said. "It wasn't sure whether I should be there or here," he added as Crabbe and Goyle started to look offended. "I asked it to put me here, after hanging out with you three on the boats," he added. "You seemed all right, so I figured I'd take my chances with the snakes." Blaise's grin came back up, and he clapped Seamus on the back.

"And we're glad to have you, mate," he said, imitating Seamus' accent half-decently. "I was sick of losing at exploding snap anyway," he cracked, pointing at the Irishman's soot-covered mug – and the one on the one on the table, as well. Seamus, to his credit, laughed.

"We'll see," he said. "What about you, Draco? Going for Quidditch this year?"

I weighed my options. I _was_ fighting a war, I reminded myself, and I remembered trying to balance Quidditch and espionage during my sixth year and how disastrous that was. On the other hand, keeping physically fit was always good for the war effort, and if I happened to develop some leadership skills that might keep people alive later, so much the better. I remembered seeing Wood and the other Gryffindor players at the final battle, too, so maybe the loyalty it instilled would be useful.

What finally tipped the balance in my mind was reminding myself that I'd have to do something after school was finished, and since I wasn't going to be a Professional Death Eater like my plan had been before, Professional Quidditch Star sounded like the best option.

"Seeker," I said. "I think I'll go for seeker." I smiled at Crabbe and Goyle. "Assuming these two lumps are trying for the Beater spots. Somebody has to keep bludgers off my back." They fairly beamed at the praise.

"Well, you've got the build for it," Seamus admitted, and right then, I knew Nott's attempted coup of our little group was in trouble. Seamus was charismatic enough to win the others over, and intelligent enough to know it. Maybe the little explosion-magnet was in the right house after all.

With that happy thought, I put off unpacking for another day and crawled into bed.


	5. For In That Sleep of Death

**Chapter 5: For In That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come?**

_**In which our protagonist does not have sweet dreams.**_

"10. Not allowed to purchase anyone's soul on government time._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"You're a monster!" My dreams were full of Ernie MacMillan and Pansy Parkinson, for some reason dressed in Hufflepuff yellow, chasing me through the halls of Hogwarts with whips and melee weaponry.

"You deserve everything you get!" MacMillan yelled, and Parkinson shrieked her agreement, punctuating it with a strike from her whip. The cracks and pain on my back didn't abate as they chased me into the Great Hall, but for some reason, it was full of adults.

"Did you really believe this would make us love you?" my father asked, and he was wearing his Death Eater robes and holding my mother's limp form in his arms. I shook my head to clear the false vision, as my mother had been alive after the final battle. My turning brought me face to face with a charred corpse walking upright and a fat teenager with oddly lifeless eyes.

"Shouldn'a left us," Crabbe breathed, and his voice was as ash on the storm. Goyle stood mute, a hellish green light in his dead vision.

Behind them lay the table of the dead, with fifty students, teachers and other wizards on it. That didn't even count the bodies of the Death Eaters, most of whom were people I'd known growing up.

"You turned your back on everything our parents were," Theo Nott's voice accused, and I saw him standing over his father's corpse, anger overcoming tears.

"You fled like a coward, and Slytherin's bad name will continue forever when they can't find you," another voice accused, and I saw Blaise's handsome face. I vaguely recalled him returning to the battle alongside Slughorn and the reinforcements – just like Blaise to wait until a battle's outcome is sure before taking sides. And yet, he was right – I _had _fled from the consequences of my actions. I _was_ a coward.

"You finally admit it to yourself?" Ernie sneered, cracking another whip slash across my back. Surely someone had set fire to me in my sleep, for a dream-whip could never burn as this one did. "Not like it was a surprise to me. Anyone who had to take out their aggression on an 11-year-old couldn't be anything else." Pansy snickered next to him, an older Pansy, back in Slytherin green.

"And yet, I should really thank you, Draco Lucius Malfoy," a high-pitched, yet still masculine, voice said from somewhere behind me. My blood froze and my heart seized. Somehow I forced myself to turn around, and there he was, rising to his feet from the floor without stopping, like a vampire might.

"You're dead," I said, ignoring the inanity of that statement in a dream where half the people fit that descriptor. He laughed that high-pitched laugh, the one that gave three generations nightmares.

"Not anymore, Draco," he said, smiling, and Merlin help me if it wasn't the warmest I'd ever seen. That, more than anything, scared me. "I thought you were useless, a spoiled child of a spoiled man, and yet, here you are, serving me again." I snorted, feeling brave for the first time in this dream.

"Serve you? I know what lies down that road," I said. Voldemort's lipless mouth opened in silent laughter.

"My resurrection, apparently," he said, "Since as you've no doubt figured out," he added, then he thundered, "I LIVE AGAIN!" His tongue flicked out, and I was reminded uncomfortably of his snake Nagini. "Because of you, Draco," he added, calm again. "I live again because of you." He pointed at my left arm.

A black brand, more tattoo than scar, curled its way around it. A snake – and now I saw it _was_ Nagini – twisting and turning before entering a skull and coming out its mouth. The Dark Mark, I thought, and then the snake came alive, rearing up off my arm and biting at me. I jumped back, bringing my gaze up to meet the Dark Lord's in shock as the snake bit me again and again, and I screamed in pain as agony sharper than any whip could bring consumed my thoughts.

The last thing I remembered as I bolted upright in bed, checking feverishly for snakebites, the Dark Mark and even whip-marks on my back and finding none, were Voldemort's glowing red eyes staring deep into my thoughts.

He was right. Voldemort was right. I'd doomed us all.


	6. My Godfather the Potions Master

**Chapter 6: My Godfather the Potions Master**

_**In which Draco plots world domination and **_

_**Hermione Granger actually manages to keep her mouth shut.**_

"98. The proper response to a chemical weapon attack is not "Tell my chain of command what I really think about them, and then poke holes in their masks._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"There will be no silly wand-waving in this class, so most of you will not grasp the majestic art that is potions making," my Godfather said a few days later, gazing specifically at Harry Potter. His little sycophants, Granger and Weasley, were trying their best to make him pay attention, but clearly, Potter didn't particularly get it.

"However," he continued, for those select few who possess the predisposition..." Salazar's blood, the man drawls more than I do. This time, he was looking at me, which might have been favoritism. I'd worked hard last time to prove it wasn't, but it's not like anyone believed me. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death." He paused, staring down Potter, who was dutifully taking notes and baying attention only to what was said rather than what was important.

"Ah, yes. Mister Potter. Our new... celebrity," my Godfather drawled. "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, clearly nervous. I almost felt sorry for him. Then again, Professor Snape was right – he_ did_ get fame and adulation everywhere else he went. My Godfather raised one eybrow.

"No? Very well, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Potter shook his head at that, too, though Granger's hand was trying its hardest to scratch against the ceiling. "And where would I find a bezoar?" Potter looked on the edge of making a smark remark, which I knew would just turn my Godfather against him even more.

I couldn't stand the little brat (he got more tolerable as he got older, but still), but being on the receiving end of Professor Snape's wrath isn't something I'd wish on anyone who didn't actually deserve it. Not anymore, anyway. I raised my hand.

"Clearly, fame isn't... everything," Professor Snape remarked. "Yes, Mister Malfoy?"

"Sir, there's no way Potter could know the answers to those, since he was raised by Muggles," I said, and took great satisfaction in watching Granger put her hand down. I'd outmaneuvered her, of course, since she, Muggle-born herself, couldn't answer anymore without embarrassing her fellow Gryffindor. "Do you mind if I take a shot at them?" He looked annoyed, before I added, "For the glory of Slytherin House, of course?" A cold smirk came to his lips then.

"Very well, Mister Malfoy. For the glory of Slytherin House, answer the questions. What would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Assuming the infusion also contained the juice from sopophorous beans, a sloth brain and valerian root, you would end up with the Draught of Living Death," I recalled. Snape's lip caught, and I almost detected a smile.

"Which is?" he pressed.

"A sleeping potion strong enough to put you in a coma," I clarified, having brewed it somewhat successfully under Slughorn my sixth year. I would have beat Potter for that damn Felix Felicius, too, if I hadn't been distracted. Snape cleared his throat.

"That's correct, Mister Malfoy. A point to Slytherin. And the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?" I smiled in a predatory manner, remembering the essay he'd set on werewolves while subbing for Lupin during third-year.

"Same thing, Professor," I said, and as he began to open his mouth, "And they're used in the Wolfsbane Potion, which allows a werewolf to keep its sanity while transformed." He shut his mouth quickly.

"Another point to Slytherin, then," he admitted. "And the bezoar? Where would I find one of those?"

"In the stomach of a goat, though there's probably one in that cupboard over there," I drawled, pointing at the supply cabinet. "That is, if you needed one now." Snape curled his lip.

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy. Three more points for Slytherin, bringing your total to five for those of you in this class who are incapable of even the most basic of maths." Here, he looked at Weasley. "A bezoar, as Mr. Malfoy has alluded, is a cure for most poisons, and is described on page seven of _Magical Draughts and Potions_, with which you had better become familiar if you intend to pass my class this year." Yes, definitely looking at Weasley.

"Now, pair up. You're going to be brewing something significantly less complicated than either of the potions Mister Malfoy mentioned, as both are far beyond the talents of any first-year."

Students scrambled to find partners, and I motioned Crabbe and Goyle together instead of picking one of them myself. After a moment's hesitation, I moved over to the bushy-haired busybody glaring at Potter and Weasley as they paired themselves off.

"Granger. Partner with me," I said, causing her to nearly knock her cauldron off the table.

"Why?" she hissed. "So you can mock me all period?" I made a face, which I swear really was a winning smile even if she couldn't appreciate it at the time.

"Well, yes, but surely you don't think a Slytherin would have only one reason, yeah?" I asked, dropping the bait and waiting for her to take it.

"What other reason could you possibly have?" she huffed, and actually gave me her attention. Hook, line and sinker. I grinned.

"Granger, I can't stand you personally, and I'm sure the feeling's mutual," I started, holding up a hand to forestall her righteous indignition. "Personally, I think you're an insufferable know-it-all," I added. "But part of that's because you're the smartest witch in our year, and probably the smartest person in this classroom with the possible exception of Professor Snape," I added, and watched her expression change as I drew in conspiratorially. "I've been making potions since I was five," I added, and wasn't entirely lying. I'd certainly been doing so for six or seven years by that point. "Between the two of us, we could set a Hogwarts record in this subject that could stand for _centuries_."

As if to punctuate my boast, Seamus' cauldron blew up, and I heard our professor's outcry of "For Merlin's sake, Finnegan, you haven't even started yet! You are a menace!" I locked eyes with Granger.

"Up for it, Granger?" She smiled frostily.

"Fine, but we're making this interesting," she said. "When I score higher than you on our Potions N.E.W.T., you'll admit I'm more intelligent than you in front of the whole school and relinquish my winnings to me," she said.

"What winnings?" I asked.

"A thousand galleons," she quoted, and I bit back the urge to whistle.

"You don't _have_ a thousand galleons," I pointed out. "And it would have to go both ways." She smiled.

"N.E.W.T.s aren't until seventh year," she said. "I'm sure I can figure something out by then." Her smile turned saccherine. "Up for it, Malfoy?" I grinned and shook the irritating Muggle-born's hand.

"Done and done. We'll make a Slytherin of you yet," I added. Her smile turned to a scowl.

"Don't count on it," she warned, and we turned our attention to the potion of the day.

**-o-o-o-**

As the lesson finished, and I returned our potion supplies to the cupboard while Granger comforted Weasley on something resembling a potion only tangentially, I sought out my Godfather.

"Professor?" I asked, hesitant for no readily apparent reason. He raised one thick eyebrow.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, stopping momentarily in packing up the dungeon. "Do you require assistance? I had thought you were doing quite well today, actually, even shackled to Ms. Granger as you were and unable to get a word in edgewise." His sneer was half a smile, and I could tell he knew what I was doing. As long as one of us did.

"Actually, Professor, it's on that subject I'd like to talk to you," I said, pulling on the mask of the studious godson while the other students filed out of the classroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Granger saying something to Potter and Weasley, and Potter turned a look my way that was more appraising than anything, but I ignored him. Time for making allies later; personal power had to come first.

"I've already succeeded in making most of the potions in this book," I said, pointing at _Magical Draughts and Potions_. "As you well know, having tutored me in most of them," I added, lest his legendary hatred for showboating did me in. His eyebrow grinned appreciatively; the rest of him betrayed nothing. I pressed on. "I was wondering if you might recommend a more advanced book to study?" If anything, the eyebrow raised higher, but he answered.

"My N.E.W.T. Students use _Advanced Potion Making_," he allowed. "There's a copy or two in that cupboard there," he added, pointing toward the back of the dungeon. "Take a look through it, and buy your own if it's not too... advanced," he drawled, and I wondered if he was mocking me. "Should I expect Miss Granger to come asking for one of her own?" he added as I dutifully retrieved a battered old copy.

"No," I said. "If I get something out of it, I'll recommend she ask her parents for a copy for Christmas," I said, grinning at the idea of Granger's two dentist parents attempting to navigate Flourish and Blott's looking for a potions textbook. My Godfather even managed to crack a smile, slight though it was.

"Good," he said. "And five points to Slytherin for cunning. Was there something else?" He paused as I put the book in my bag, as if he expected me to leave. I remembered, then, that my Godfather was a talented Occlumens, and quickly thought of a way to cover my own talent plausibly.

"Yes," I said, making a show of looking around for other students. "I hate to admit a weakness," I said, conspiratorially, "But I've been having pretty terrible nightmares the last few nights." That wasn't a lie, at least – and Professor Snape didn't need to know that Occlumency wasn't actually working to block them out. He nodded.

"And you're looking for a way to get rid of them?" He asked. I nodded. "Very well, there is a textbook on Occlumency – the art of shielding and disciplining your mind – in the restricted section." He wrote out a pass. "I sincerely doubt the techniques you can pick up from a textbook will work to block out a properly-trained legilimens," he smirked proudly, "but they should help you keep the nightmares at bay before any of your housemates find out about them." I nodded, taking the pass gratefully.

"Thanks, Godfather," I said, and then he really was looking at me appraisingly. I kicked myself mentally; I'd completely taken him for granted before. I put the pass in my back along with _Advanced Potion Making._

"Of course, Draco," he said, and his face was a mask of confusion. "You're my Godson, I could do no less." With that, the Potions Master swept out of his dungeon like a _engorgio_'d bat, leaving me pondering his mood swings behind him.


	7. Look, Ma, No Hands!

**Chapter 7: Look, ma, no hands!**

_**In which Neville Longbottom does not hit the ground, alliances are made**_

_**and that all-important sport is acknowledged to be more important than politics.**_

"198. Not allowed to lead a coup during training missions._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"Absolutely not!" Madame Hooch bellowed at Blaise and Weasley, who were, for once, united on an idea – that idea, of course, being Quidditch. I nudged Theo, who was standing next to me.

"You ask her next time," I suggested. "I heard that as 'Absolutely, Nott'." Theo chuckled as Hooch's tirade continued.

"Half of these people have never been on brooms before!" she added. "I won't have students killing themselves the first day – MISTER LONGBOTTOM! GET DOWN RIGHT NOW!" I rolled my eyes. Longbottom, apparently completely unaffected by my time-traveling shenanigans, had made off with his broom again. Up he floated, completely out of control, and half of us were barely on our brooms yet.

Come to think of it, Madame Hooch didn't even _have_ a broom with her. Exactly how much firewhiskey did these teachers drink instead of holding planning meetings? Speaking of being shitfaced drunk, Potter immediately launched off the ground, heading toward Neville.

"Dammit, Potter, get back here! He'll be fine!" I shouted. If he got himself killed before he could off Voldemort for me, I was absolutely screwed. So was the rest of the world. Potter, of course, didn't see it that way.

"What, Malfoy? Afraid to see someone else showing off like you did in Potions?" he taunted, completely ignoring Hooch as he launched the school's aging Cleansweep Five toward Longbottom.

"Oh, for Salazar's sake," I mumbled a complaint, launching up to follow him. "You're not killing yourself on my watch, Potter. Once you off Voldemort, I don't care, but until then, your life is mine." In the background, Hooch continued screeching impotently, but I caught up with Potter as he slowed to help Longbottom.

"Guys, help!" he whinged. The broom, of course, continued to try and get away from him, and managed to succeed as we arrived. Thankfully for his arm, Potter and I were in position to catch him between us, and we twisted our hips on our brooms to lower ourselves to the ground. I caught Potter's eye over Longbottom, and caught a moment of respect in his eyes that I hadn't expected. I gave the look right back; despite it being entirely a Gryffindor thing to do, Potter had leapt to Longbottom's aide before he'd realized he could never catch his housemate on his own.

"STAY RIGHT THERE," Madame Hooch screamed at us, her usually-calm face twisted with conflicting emotions. "ON THE GROUND OR BY HELGA I WILL HAVE YOU EXPELLED!" She stormed off to the castle while Potter's friends surrounded him and my housemates looked confused.

She returned a moment later, a stern-faced Professor Minerva McGonagall at her heels. I bit back a smile and turned it into an outward groan – the Transfiguration professor was unlikely to favor her own house, as her reputation for being hard but fair was well-earned, but my housemates didn't know that and more importantly, didn't know that _I _knew that.

"In all my years at Hogwarts, I never," she said, though I doubted that this was anywhere near the worst thing she'd ever seen. "Nothing – nothing gives a student the right to disobey a teacher so flagrantly," she added. "Ten points each will be taken from Gryffindor and Slytherin respectively for your actions, Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy," she ignored Longbottom, but as it wasn't his fault, that seemed fair. "And I will be writing to your parents this evening." I cringed. That was going to go over well. McGonagall's face softened almost imperceptably.

"On the other hand, you both acted with admirable skill and determination," she said. "Your actions, however unwise, likely saved Mister Longbottom serious injury or worse." She sighed. "Therefore, twenty-five points will be given to each of your houses for heroism." She walked away. "And I will be monitoring the rest of this lesson to ensure nothing like this happens again," she added.

Blaise, being Blaise, picked this moment to approach Madame Hooch again.

"Ma'am, with Professor McGonagall and yourself watching, a Quidditch match wouldn't really be that unsafe, now would it?" I'm not sure where Blaise gets that innocent look from. It can't be from his mother. I swear, he actually looked bashful and drew his toe across the ground behind him. Madame Hooch put her head in her hands.

"Albus talked me out of retirement _how?_" she wondered aloud. "Fine," she agreed. "But at least two of you are going to have to sit out," she added. "I want a broom myself in case something goes wrong, and Mister Longbottom's broom doesn't appear to be coming back anyway." Hah! She _can_ be taught.

"I'll volunteer," came Longbottom's nervous stammer from the ground. To my complete lack of surprise, given the previous night's conversation, Nott raised his hand as well.

"So will I, if I can commentate," he said, then at the rest of the Slytherin's looks, added an explanation. "What?" he asked. "I like the sound of my voice, don't you?" Blaise snorted.

"So, by House, then?" Weasley asked, and Blaise nodded as we made our way down to the pitch, McGonagall and Hooch trailing behind us. I'm not sure where Blaise got ahold of a quaffle, but we agreed on Quaffle-Only rules since we couldn't find any bludgers anyway. I noticed Granger and Daphne Greengrass both look relieved at that, notice each other looking the same way, and almost simultaneously put on a face of grim resolve and mount brooms.

Weasley mounted his Cleansweep like he'd been born to it (hell, it was a cheap broom, he probably had) and took the Keeper's spot at the Gryffindor goals. After a moment's conference, Tracey Davis mounted up and took her spot opposite the red-headed git. Apparently there had been some discussion between her and Greengrass; Daphne had wanted the spot because she didn't like flying, at which point Tracey reminder her that the Quaffle would be constantly flying toward the goals and if she wasn't keen on stuff hitting her in the face, perhaps she should be a chaser like the rest.

I admit, I kind of lost track of the argument at that point because I was distracted reminding myself that for Salazar's sake, we're eleven and that joke really isn't appropriate to the age group, dammit. By the time that had faded, I followed Blaise and Finnegan up to the middle of the pitch, facing Potter, Dead Thomas and, of all people, Lavender Brown.

"You're going down, Finnegan," Thomas boasted, but his eyes were smiling. Seamus smiled right back.

"Aye, it's a good thing too, or you'd never get a shot in," he said. "A pleasure to be sharing the field of battle with you gentlemen," he added, nodding to the Gryffindors. "And you too, Brown," he added as an afterthought before an indignant look could really form. Thankfully, we were saved from that completely awkward conversation – dammit, eleven! – by a whistle from down below. Apparently, Theo had learned the_ sonorous _charm while we weren't paying attention.

"GOOD MORNING, FELLOW SLYTHERINS, PROFESSORS AND HONORED OPPONENTS IN THAT OTHER HOUSE!" he bellowed. Likes the sound of his own voice, indeed. "AS YOU MIGHT HAVE PICKED UP IF YOU'VE SPENT MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES IN THE WIZARDING WORLD, THIS RED BALL IS CALLED THE QUAFFLE!" he added, pointing to a ball Longbottom was holding nervously in both hands. "MISTER LONGBOTTOM HAS SPORTINGLY AGREED TO THROW IT IN THE AIR MOMENTARILY, AND ONCE THAT HAPPENS, YOU LOT TRY YOUR DAMNEDEST TO GET IT IN THE OTHER SIDE'S HOOPS!" Theo ducked a swat from Professor McGonagall for the swearing. "NOW, I WANT TO SEE A GOOD, CLEAN MATCH!"he said. Blatant lies. "LONGBOTTOM, THROW THE DAMN BALL!" he added for good measure, ducking another swat from McGonagall. Longbottom obliged, tossing the quaffle high into the air, and then the scrum began.

"Potter has it, a good pass by the Boy-Who-Lived to Lavender Brown, dear Salazar, that girl cannot catch to save her life. Zabini has it now – that's Blaise Zabini, who's secret ambition is to play chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, but he's not pretty enough – ZABINI SCORES!" Apparently, Theo was toning it down for the actual commentary.

"Now Ron Weasley puts it back in the game, passes to MacDougal, who could take it all the way to – no, she's double-teamed by Crabbe and Goyle," eleven years old, dammit! "Those two are beaters for sure if they ever make the team, Quaffle is retrieved by Patil, who knew _she_ could fly? She passes to Thomas, whose score attempt is blocked by Tracey Davis. Quaffle is retrieved by Draco Malfoy – not a bad catch there, though he's got more of a Seeker's build – passes to Zabini, back to Malfoy, to Finnegan – FINNEGAN SCORES! TWENTY TO NOTHING SLYTHERIN!" I smiled. I wasn't as out of practice as I thought.

"Weasley passes to Brown, Brown predictably drops it, Granger catches it, though from the look on her face, that was probably accidental – she passes to Thomas, Thomas to MacDougal, MACDOUGAL SCORES! And that's twenty to ten, still in favor of Slytherin, as Davis sends it out to Zabini, Zabini passes to Greengrass, who can catch even if she can't fly – Greengrass goes down, and the Quaffle is up in the air, Finnegan rescues it for Slytherin, he's going for the goal, he attempts the shot, WEASLEY SAVES IT! A magnificent save by Ronald 'Littlest Brother' Weasley, even I'm impressed and he's still a filthy Gryffindor, and oops, he's dropped it, but Thomas picks it up – damn good chaser, Thomas is – oh, and he'll pass to MacDougal, who's no slouch herself, and then back to Thomas, this could tie the game here, Davis isn't back to the goal after checking on Greengrass, Thomas shoots and -" I wasn't even thinking. I twisted my broom around, slamming the Cleansweep into the Quaffle and launching it all the way across the field.

"And there's a fantastic block by Draco 'My Other Broom Is A Nimbus 2000' Malfoy, and the Quaffle is going, going, gone, dammit Malfoy, if you lose our Quaffle, I'll have to stop talking, and Potter is chasing after it, LOOK AT THAT DIVE! VIKTOR KRUM COULDN'T HAVE CAUGHT THAT! BLOODY PISSING HELL! Sorry there, Professor."

I smiled. I guess Potter was going to be a seeker after all. Good. Now I had a reason to be on my team.

"And judging from the look I'm getting down here, Professor McGonagall and Madame Hooch are calling the game, and so final score, Slytherin Twenty, Other House Ten, which is how it usually is in real games anyway, at least in porport–"

"Ahem. _Finite Incantatum._" McGonagall could be heard even over the din of Theo's voice, and he mercifully went back to normal volume. As we descended, victorious and enjoying the Gryffindor grumbling, an older student in Slytherin uniform joined us.

"On your free period, Mister Flint?" McGonagall inquired, and he grunted his agreement. "See that you make it back to the castle before Transfiguration," she said, herding the Gryffindors on ahead. Flint – Marcus, I remembered his first name being – turned to face us.

"Not a bad game," he allowed, making a point to somehow include all of us except Greengrass. "I'm the Slytherin Quidditch captain," he said, maneuvering to show off the green and silver badge on his robes. "And after watching that, I'm thinking about putting together a reserve team in case our main team suffers any suspicious accidents," he added, and I gathered that he was speaking from past experience. "Any of you up for it?"

Seamus and Blaise's hands went up fast enough I expected to hear the crack of displaced air, and Crabbe and Goyle weren't too far behind them. I took my time, but raised mine as well. Flint smiled, not a mean feat considering his troll-like visage.

"What positions?" he asked.

"Chaser!" "Same here!" came Seamus and Blaise.

"Beater," Crabbe and Goyle added at the same time, then looked at each other and chuckled. Yes, they chuckled. Boys do not giggle. Fine. They giggled.

"Seeker," I drawled. "If I can get a half-decent broom." Theo smiled, whispering his made-up nickname for me. Flint nodded approvingly, though. He must have missed that.

"What about you, Davis? You could probably make Keeper," he said. She tossed her hair back.

"Maybe," she allowed. "If I don't find something more fun to do." Flint just shook his head.

"What could possibly be more fun than Quidditch?" he wondered aloud. I snickered. Flint was fifteen: he should have known the answer to that question by now even if Tracey was still eleven pissing years old.


	8. Mind Going Through Them Changes

**Chapter 8: Mind Going Through Them Changes**

_**In which a professor is temporarily a Salazar-damned cat, the fate of**_

_**Pansy Parkinson is discovered, and Marcus Flint has a very bad day indeed.**_

"63. Command decisions do not_ need to be ratified by a 2/3 majority."_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

The day after the impromptu Quidditch match in which, I will remind you, we flattened Gryffindor – small pleasures keep morale up – Slytherin first-years had our first Transfiguration class. We filed into McGonagall's classroom in twos and threes – clearly someone had forgotton what _file_ meant – and were interspersed here and there with Hufflepuffs, who were sharing the class with us.

Seeing Pansy Parkinson among them was enough to make me nervous, and MacMillan's scowl didn't help. He – as well as three more Hufflepuffs I barely recognized as Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones – firmly placed themselves between Parkinson and the Slytherins, as if they were afraid we'd hex her in the middle of Transfiguration.

The old me might have, but I was more disturbed by the look of confused pain on Pansy's face. I'd never seen it there before; she was never one for showing weakness to anybody. I shook my head. At least the Hufflepuffs would take care of her. Unbidden, Dumbledore's words echoed in my head.

"Draco, years ago I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices," he'd said. Was I making them again?

"You want to stop staring over here, Malfoy?" MacMillan called out. "Haven't you done enough?" I looked around, startled. I hadn't realized I was staring, but now that he pointed it out. I bit back a pointed reply as I noticed McGonagall's bespectacled cat form sitting on the desk. Fool me twice and all that. Finnegan was having none of it, though.

"I thought we could look wherever," he brogued. "I mean, equality for all wizards, isn't that what Hufflepuff's all about?" His smile wasn't quite a Slytherin sneer, but it did the trick. MacMillan jumped to his feet.

"And if Slytherins would pull the snakes out of their arses, we might even–" what we might even do was cut off as McGonagall, transforming herself back to human form, stepped between MacMillan and Seamus.

"Mister MacMillan! Mister Finnegan! Five points each from Hufflepuff and Slytherin! And I expected better from you in particular, Mister MacMillan," she said, tossing a look that might even have been sad at Seamus. MacMillan hung his head, but I could see his glare continue through the rest of the class as we tried in vain to transfigure matchsticks into needles.

I scowled at the now-silver matchstick. Transfiguration had never been my best subject. I did consider whittling it down, but further concentration resulted in an actual needle about the same time that Seamus' matchstick exploded. Apparently, he'd managed to transfigure his matchstick into magnesium.

"All right, Seamus?" Blaise asked, getting a nod out of the accident-prone Irishman before a half-hearted glare from McGonagall. As we left class, MacMillan shouldered past me roughly.

"You'll get yours, Slytherin scum," he spat once we were in the hall. I really didn't remember him being this much of an arse. Again, however, having housemates paid off.

"Sure he will," Blaise said cheerfully, as the rest of the first-years assembled behind us. "A full stock of intelligent friends, more Galleons than even the MacMillans could dream of, and political power – that's his due, and believe me, he'll get his."

I smiled, channeling a bit of the old Malfoy behind it. If Ernie MacMillan wanted to be an ass, I could absolutely play the role of the spoiled bully. Hell, I'd just barely grown out of it myself.

"Go rot," he swore. "And take that rediculous haircut with you," he added. I scowled. The helmet of blond locks remained until I could brew up an antidote to whatever potion had been masquerading as hair gel the day I left.

"Not very friendly," I said. "Perhaps we should take this outside?" I felt a presence behind me.

"I should hope not, Mister Malfoy," came the authoritative voice of our transfiguration professor. "Now, off to lunch, all of you." She ushered us further away from the classroom and out into the courtyard before heading past us to the doors I knew led to the staff table. Unfortunately, she missed the outflow of about six older Hufflepuffs coming from the dungeons. Potions was apparently out today.

"All right, Ernie?" one of them queried. He shrugged, and the older 'Puffs followed his glare to me. They started towards us, but this time, the hand on my shoulder was a good sign.

"We've got this, Malfoy. Get the other first-years out of the way." Adrian Pucey, a beater from the Slytherin team moved his way past us, interposing himself – and most of the rest of the Slytherin team. Sensing a confrontation in the works, I took his advice.

Lunch was excellent. I'm not sure how house elves managed to make such a decent Reuben, but damn if it wasn't the best corned beef, rye and sauerkraut I've ever tasted before or since.

I even finished it before the predictable explosion – not Seamus' this time – erupted from up the table.

"ARE YOU BLOODY FUCKING KIDDING ME!" bellowed Marcus Flint, causing Dumbledore to spew Pumpkin Juice all over the staff table. Guess he'll need more Beard Club for Men if he's going to keep it that shiny white color. "THE WHOLE BLOODY TEAM?"

Professor Snape was speaking with the Quidditch Captain at the head of the table, and I could guess what was going on as soon as both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff hourglasses emptied completely. Both houses groaned loud enough to rattle furniture, while the Ravenclaws stared in outright shock and a couple of the Gryffindors – predictably, the Weasley twins – danced a little jig.

Flint, face as red as Fred and George's hair, came over to where the first-years were sitting. At risk of a slight understatement, he was not particularly happy.

"Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, Finnegan," he said, swallowing. His voice was flat, betraying nothing, but that was an old Slytherin trick to avoid blowing up. "Be advised that you are no longer reserves. Practice is on Saturday at five thirty a.m. Be there." He looked over at Tracey Davis, who looked more than a little nervous at Flint's attention. "Davis, I need a Keeper. You're it if you want it." She nodded.

"What happened, Flint?" Nott was the only one willing to ask the question on all our minds. Flint shook his head.

"Apparently, the rest of the team was fighting with some Hufflepuffs over some damn thing or another," he allowed. "Three of ours are in the hospital wing, as are most of the 'Puffs. Every last one has been suspended from the team for the rest of the year," he continued, "because McGonagall and Snape couldn't get the whole story from anybody. Additionally, fifty points was taken from Slytherin – and Hufflepuff – for each participant. We lost 300, which was more than we even had," he said. "And the Hufflepuffs lost 350."

I admit it. I gulped. Hell, I'd let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and helped kill Albus bloody Dumbledore, and I'd never lost Slytherin House 300 points in one go. On the up side, hey, Quidditch!

Flint was waiting for an answer, so I nodded, conflicted. He took that as an all right, and moved on.

"Bloody Black Friday is what this is," Tracey muttered, and there were nods around the table. One pair of Gryffindors walking by, however, had other thoughts.

"Bloody hilarious is what it is, actually," said the thickest of the Weasley clan, and Potter, walking with him, laughed.

"Think this is funny, do you, Potter?" The words were out of my mouth and I was on my feet before my rational mind could process my actions. I groaned, but couldn't back down now. Potter looked spoiling for a fight, though, and I had no idea why.

"It is, a bit," he said, drawing his wand. "Care to make something of it?" Weasley, showing a degree of awareness to his surroundings he hadn't quite managed until then, pushed Potter's wand down.

"Not here, mate," he said. "Not with the Professors watching." Not with Slytherin without points to lose, he managed to avoid saying. My small esteem for him went up a bit at that.

"I agree, actually, Weasley, which may actually be a first in wizarding history," I allowed. "I'd suggest we take this somewhere else, but Potter probably has no idea what a wizard's duel is, does he?" I did my best to appear snide while my insides curdled. Was there no way to stop walking the path we'd walked before?

"Of course he does," the ginger snapped. "I'm his second. Who's yours?" I looked behind me.

"Blaise, care to second?" I drawled. Salazar's Gift to Slytherin House nodded his assent. "Blaise Zabini will second. See you on the second floor corridor at midnight, then." Weasley nodded, and Potter, probably unsure of what he was supposed to do, joined him. I let them look foolish for another second before sitting down and putting my back to them. "We're done here," I said, and was rewarded with their stomping feet.

Salazar's teeth, I was going to have to watch that temper. What the hell happened to me? I used to be kind of cool. Now I was acting like a thrice-damned Gryffindor. I busied myself writing something on a napkin, and with a flick of my wand, it folded itself into a mildly aerodynamic excuse for an aircraft and launched across the room.

I could easily defeat him, of course, and he didn't know it. I'll even admit that, had I been my real first-year self, Potter probably would have defeated me. Maybe. But were I to actually duel him now, it would be a massacre. He wouldn't even get a single charm out before I stunned him across the room.

So really, I thought, as my impromptu aircraft lodged itself in the tangled nest of hair that was the back of Argus Filch's head, I was doing him a favor.


	9. The Three Wizarding Goats Gruff

**Chapter 9: The Three Wizarding Goats Gruff**

_**In which Crabbe and Goyle do not understand, and**_

_**Draco is forced to improvise using quasi-Muggle faery tales**_

"31. Not allowed to let sock puppets take responsibility for any of my actions._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"I don't understand, Draco," Crabbe said, and I resisted the urge to ask him to quantify that thought.

"I don't even understand what I don't understand," added Goyle, with an unusual grasp of the multi-syllable thought. Now I really did have to ask.

"What, exactly, has you two confused today?" I asked, and I could hear the thoughts forcing their way through Crabbe and Goyle's heads before Crabbe spoke up.

"Why you're not down in the corridor dueling Potter," he clarified. I nodded sagely, since it was, after all, almost midnight. With it being a Friday and our not having classes the next day, we were up late playing Exploding Snap.

"Well, let's recap, shall we?" I began. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my erstwhile second with his feet up on his foot locker, twiddling his wand in one hand while reading some magazine or other. I gave him a slight nod, then turned back to Vince and Greg. "What did I do this morning?"

"You challenged Potter to a duel," Goyle said. I snapped my fingers together and leaned forward.

"Very observant of you, Gregory," I said. "Now, does that sound like a particularly Slytherin thing to do?" Crabbe and Goyle, to their credit, shook their heads.

"So what else did I do, after Potter and Weasley finally walked away?" I asked, hoping against hope that some form of deductive reasoning and powers of observation could be beaten into these two. I had no intention of losing them again to their own stupidity. "Nothing?" I sighed.

"He sent off a note," Blaise said, without lifting his nose from his book. "As far as I could tell, it went to Filch." I nodded, and seriously, I live for that moment of dawning comprehension that shows up on Crabbe and Goyle's vacant faces some times.

"So you sent Filch to catch Potter!" Crabbe grinned. Goyle, still looked confused.

"But why do that? Isn't that kind of like admitting you're weaker than he is?" If Gregory Goyle keeps spouting off unexpected wisdom like that, one day he's going to cause me to spit some drink all over the room. I nodded.

"Some might see it that way, but since I doubt Potter will even make it to the second-floor corridor before Filch catches him, it won't matter." Goyle nodded, but I could see he wasn't satisfied. I sighed.

"Shall I tell you a story, then?" I asked. "A parable, if you will, that my father once told me?" Okay, I should feel bad lying to my friends, but part one, they're Slytherins and should probably have expected it by now, and two, it's kind of become habit by now. In any event, my father never told me any bedtime stories, and none of the ones my mother told me would be any use here.

Crabbe and Goyle both nodded. Bloody hell, now I had to actually tell them a story. Thankfully, I had one in stock. In an odd coincidence, Crabbe and Goyle themselves had ransacked the abandoned – and I shuddered just writing that, considering _why_ it was empty – Muggle Studies classroom our seventh year, taking a few books to use as rolling papers in the Slytherin dorms. I'd happened across a book of Muggle faery tales they'd not gotten to, and it did much to ease my mind during that hellish second semester.

"This is the story of the Three Wizarding Goats Gruff," I started and watched Seamus bury a snicker behind his cards... which surprised everyone by _not_ exploding. I shot him a glare that plainly said "shut up shut up shut up," and was about to continue when Goyle interrupted.

"Why were they gruff? Were they old or something?" he asked.

"Yeah, did someone piss in their tea?" Crabbe added. I shook my head.

"That's just the way the story's titled," I said. "Anyway, once upon a time, in a land not far from here, there lived three goats, and they were brothers. They were fairly happy living together, these wizarding goats were, until one day, their land was invaded by Muggle farmers, and they felt the need to secret themselves into hiding."

"Maybe that's why they were gruff," Goyle said. "I'd be pretty rude to people too if I'd been forced from my home." I sighed.

"Anyway," I growled, "These goats, being magic, were doing quite well on their journey until they were separated at a village. The youngest goat woke up first and decided to get on with the journey, leaving a note for his brothers."

"Well, there's a mistake right there," Seamus cut in. "Anybody who's seen a horror flick knows you never split up." After a moment of staring, we turned back to the story.

"He reached a terrifying river, which could not be crossed without risking the goat's life," I continued, and this time, it was Theo who broke in.

"Isn't this how 'The Tale of the Three Brothers' started?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Do you want to tell this story? Or shall I continue?" I asked. He grinned, and dealt an excellent hand to Seamus, who was inching slowly away from his cards in defiance of the inevitable.

"In. Any. Event." I continued, "The youngest goat was, sadly, a Squib, so he was thrilled when he found a bridge crossing the river. He began to cross, and his hooves went trip-trap, trip-trap along the cobblestones." I paused, waiting for the inevitable interruption. Surprisingly, it didn't come.

"He was confronted with a river troll, which, while as big and ferocious as their mountain cousins, are often more cunning creatures," I said. "The troll could even speak, though he may have had the intelligence of a small child." I didn't mention that a good chunk of my audience had only marginally better.

" 'Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?' the troll asked, and his voice stank of death. The youngest troll was afraid, for though he was a strong goat, he was still a Squib and had little chance of taking on a fully-grown troll by himself." I grabbed some water from the table nearest me, taking a chance to breathe as well. Crabbe and Goyle looked spellbound, Seamus was busy getting his arse kicked by Theo at Exploding Snap, Theo was likewise busy kicking Seamus' arse at snap, and Blaise was highly amused by something in his magazine. After a moment's pause, I continued.

"Still, despite his disadvantage, he was proud of himself. 'I am the youngest Wizarding Goat Gruff,' he proclaimed, and the troll laughed. 'Gruff or not,' it said, 'you are on my bridge, and I will make a meal out of you.' " Goyle gasped. "But the youngest goat was not without intelligence, for he had been raised by a family of cunning goats. 'You could do that,' he allowed, 'but I suggest you save your appetite!' The troll laughed. 'Why would I do that?' it asked. The youngest goat smiled. 'Because my brother, who is much larger than I am, will be along shortly, and would make you a far better meal.' The troll paused to consider this new information. 'I suppose you're right,' he said, for again, trolls are not known for their intelligence. And the youngest Billy – I mean, Wizarding Goat Gruff trip-trapped past the troll and across the bridge."

Crabbe and Goyle hadn't grasped the story too much yet, but I wasn't quite to the point yet, either. I drank some more water, used to snarky quips and witty insults instead of this long narration, but pressed on shortly thereafter.

"Some time later, the second goat, a middle child, came to the bridge, following his brother's tracks. Like his younger brother, he encountered the troll, but unlike the youngest, this goat was a wizard, and more than capable of handling himself. The troll looked at him, and seeing that the youngest goat had not lied, grinned a hungry grin. 'Your brother told me you'd be coming,' it said, and smiled cruelly at the goat. 'Now, come here, that I may eat you, trip-trapping little goat.'

"Now, the middle Wizarding Goat Gruff was no slouch with his wand, despite a preference for charms and potions over curses and hexes, and he knew that he could take down the troll in a straight-up fight. But he also knew the troll had the high ground, and he was unwilling to risk his defeat when clearly there was a sneakier way to bypass this troll. So he said to the troll, 'You could do that, I'm sure, master river troll, but perhaps you should save your appetite?' The troll growled at him, for he was very hungry by now. 'Why should I do that?' it asked. The middle goat smiled. 'Because my brother, who is even larger than I am, will be along shortly, and would make you a far better meal,' the goat said.

"The troll paused, wary of a trick, but his appetite got the better of him. 'Very well,' it told the middle goat. 'Perhaps you should go on, and I will wait here for your brother.' With a polite bow – for the middle Wizarding Goat Gruff had been raised in a proud family and would always remember his manners – the middle goat trip-trapped over the bridge.

"Finally, having had a bit of a lie in, the Eldest Goat Gruff made his way to the bridge, following the tracks of his brothers. Now overwhelmed with hunger and unable to even think, the river troll flew at the Eldest Goat Gruff as soon as it saw him, intending to kill and devour him. Without even batting an eye, the eldest goat drew his wand, uttered the words '_Avada Kedavra!_' and slew the troll as he charged, for no man, beast or goat can stand against the Killing Curse. With a spring in his step and a whistle on his goat lips, he trip-trapped over the bridge to join his brothers, who continued on their way unmolested." I took a deep breath. "Now, what have we learned from this story?" Crabbe was the first to say something.

"Don't fall for your enemy's tricks?" he guessed. I tilted my head, considering the answer. It wasn't where I was going with it, but it was a good answer nonetheless.

"And?" I asked, figuring acting like I had more than one right answer planned all along was the best course of action here.

"Oh!" Goyle interjected. "You're like the second goat – you could have taken out the troll, but decided to get someone else to do it!" I nodded.

"And why is that, Greg?" I asked, pushing a little harder.

"Because getting someone 'bigger,' or better at magic, or something like that, means you win without even fighting?" he guessed, and I gave it to him.

"Right in one, Goyle, though as you know Filch isn't exactly my spellcasting superior. He just has authority, which some times is as good as a wand – this is one of those cases." They both nodded. "Did we learn anything else from the story?" They shook their heads, but Blaise chimed in from behind his magazine.

" 'Choose your battles wisely' is the moral, I think," he said, and damn if Crabbe and Goyle didn't nod as if they'd never thought of that before. As if to lend credence to his remark, Seamus' entire hand exploded and Theo stifled a victory cry. The room broke into quiet laughter, and Seamus glared at us.

"Think that's funny, do you?" he asked, annoyed. "After the story you just told? Maybe you people should dress up as goats or something for Halloween, give us all a chance to laugh at you." He started to mutter something about goats not exploding in stupid stories, and I missed the look of confusion on Crabbe and Goyle's faces until they spoke up.

"Dress... up?" they asked. Seamus, smile fixed firmly on his face now that he was the center of attention for a reason not involving charcoal, explained.

"Something Muggles – and yes, some wizards as well, don't give me that scowl, Theo – do for Halloween. Dress in costumes. It's sort of a wish-fulfillment thing," he added. I nodded. Having read this fanfiction, I was entirely too familiar with that sort of thing.

"Can we do that, Draco? Can you get us something like that?" Goyle said. Crabbe snorted.

"Of course he can. We could probably do it better, 'cause we're wizards," he added haughtily, and I wasn't about to argue against him when one, I was in a dorm full of Slytherins, and two, I rather agreed with him.

"Sure," I said, resolving to owl post for some transfiguration-based candy or something. "And on that note, we should probably head to bed," I added, remembering that we now had Quidditch Practice at far too early in the morning.

As we turned the lights out to go to bed, Blaise, in the bunk next to mine, turned his head toward me.

"Is that really a Wizarding faery tale?" he murmured, quiet enough so that Crabbe, on the other side of my bunk, wouldn't hear it. I nodded, and Blaise snorted. "You're so full of shit, Draco," he said, grinning.

"This from the man who spent all night reading 'Teen Witch' and was convinced his transfiguration of the cover was good enough for us not to notice?" I shot back, equally grinning as his expression went to horrified and defensive.

"It's just for the skin-care products!" he complained. "I have a delicate skin condition." I snickered, then sobered up a bit.

"Anything for getting this rediculous stuff out of my hair?" I asked, seriously.

"Good night, Draco," he said, a smile on his face as the lights went out.


	10. All Hallow's Eviscerations

**Chapter 10: All Hallow's Eviscerations**

_**In which Draco wears the head of a goat, Quirrell faints,**_

_**and Hermione Jean Granger manages not to die a horrible death,**_

_**no thanks to that complete arse Ronald Weasley and that tosser Harry Potter.**_

"70. I am not authorized to prescribe any form of medication._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

After a completely grueling Quidditch practice, which I admit I relished even if my body really, really did not, I huffed and puffed (not to be confused with Hufflepuffing, which I wouldn't get to do for at least a couple of years yet) up to the Owlery and order a couple... items.

The first was a Honeydukes catelog, from which I thought I might be able to order at the very least some Halloween candy for the dorm and, possibly, something I'd seen in their windows at the Diagon Alley shop – transfiguration-based candies.

Secondly, I'd managed to catch Blaise at a weak point after practice and coaxed the name of an antidote to the glue I had apparently decided to style my hair with a few weeks prior, so that was coming as soon as bloody possible. I was _not_ keeping my hair in this ridiculous helmet for a second longer than necessary.

**-o-o-o-**

Halloween came sooner than expected, and sadly, my hair gel remover wasn't among the owls I received before it. On the positive side, the previous evening, I'd received three doses of Honeydukes' patented "Get Your Goat Chocolates," which contained charms to temporarily change one's head into a goat. Crabbe, Goyle and I would have three hours in which to make Seamus laugh and Blaise cry manly tears.

Other tears, of course, were absolutely not my fault this time. After watching Granger and I rule the Potions classroom despite the verbal snipes at each other, Weasley was spoiling for a fight. Potter, having apparently learned a lesson from the botched Midnight Duel – which apparently he'd avoided getting in trouble for, somehow – warned him against picking one with me. Unfortunately, that left his own housemate to confront. Harry Potter: brave kid, not the brightest star in the sky when it came to social interaction, though.

"All I'm saying is I don't understand why you're partnered with him instead of one of us!" Weasley was yelling, making a huge scene outside the Charms classroom as I left it even as Potter tried to pull him back from doing something horribly stupid... as per usual. "I mean, you could have partnered with anybody in our house, but no, you had to partner with that slick git!" I reflexively checked my hair, but the movement drew Weasley's attention to me.

"And you!" he continued, ignoring Potter's increasingly frustrated attempts to make him see reason. "Why would you choose to partner with Hermione instead of someone in your own house? Finneganwas free!" I paused, as if considering it – really, I was waiting for perfect timing.

"Because she's better at Potions than Seamus Finnegan," I said, and yes – perfect timing. Something Irish exploded from the Charms classroom I'd just left, followed by a string of what I assumed were curses in Gaelic. "And I rather like being top of the class half the time," I added, getting the slightest bit of a smile out of Granger through the tears that were starting to build, and putting me on the receiving end of Potter's rather calculating look. Maybe h**e **should have been in Slytherin too. With that rather amused thought, I walked off, not caring to continue the conversation with Weasley any longer.

"Why don't you just go with him?" Weasley asked, and I could only assume he was talking to Granger. "You're not even a real Gryffindor anyway," he added, and I heard her burst into tears and rush off. I admit, I was uncomfortably reminded of Pansy Parkinson, and that got hammered home as Ernie MacMillan shouldered past me.

"You do that, Malfoy?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Not this time, MacMillan. Weasley's fault," I said. That's right. Slytherin House, where The Buck Stops... Over There Somewhere. Behind That Tree. No, The Far One. Yeah. There. MacMillan glared at me some more.

"Good," he said. "Making one eleven-year-old girl cry per term should be more than enough, I would think." He stormed off. One day, I was going to figure him out. It just wasn't today.

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, as even Sprout good-naturedly tailored her lesson to the common enchantments of pumpkins rather than the bubotubers we had been studying. I assume she, like the entire class, was ready for the feast and wasn't interested in putting her mind elsewhere.

At a quarter to six, I popped my chocolate, and headed down to the feast itself, checking my face in the mirror as I reached the great hall. I was, indeed, goat-headed. A Malfoy does not go off half-cocked at every catcall, thankfully, so I was prepared, I thought. Plus, I'd have my faithful companions, Crabbe and Goyle with me, so... what were they doing sitting at the Slytherin Table, heads completely human-shaped and looking glum?

"Crabbe, Goyle, would you care to explain why I am the only person in this room with a goat-shaped head?" I asked, biting my tongue to keep from yelling at them. Goyle even looked ashamed.

"We, uh, switched our candy bags with a couple Gryffindors' this morning," he said. Crabbe nodded.

"Yeah, Weasley and Potter had huge bags and ours were pretty small, so we switched 'em." Oh, crap, I thought, and as if on cue, two goat-headed Gryffindors walked into the great hall. Oh crap. I ducked. I admit it, I hid like a shamed little child.

"Draco, what are you doing?" Crabbe asked. I shushed him.

"You screwed this up, the least you could do is use your body to block their view," I snarled, and somehow, it came out just fine despite my different vocal cords. Great transfiguration job, I thought. And I could eat, too, though I just picked at my food. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, something from the first time around, perhaps? I wasn't sure.

I did see a few other costumes at the feast. Seamus, true to his word to join us in costume, had found a black cape, a mask and a ridiculous hat somewhere and had his wand in a highly-oversized sheath obviously meant for a sword. I admit, I didn't get the reference, but I figured it was a Muggle thing. Over at the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones had on a blue plaid dress and her hair in pigtails – again, more references I didn't get, but apparently her companions did – an overall-clad scarecrow I eventually realized was Justin Finch-Fletchly, Hannah Abbott dressed as a lion, and Ernie MacMillan in obviously-enchanted full plate armor and carrying an axe were all laughing uproariously at some joke.

Even the Ravenclaws got into the act a bit; I saw Zacharius Smith dressed as Sir Cadogan from Beedle the Bard – finally, something in my idiom! – and over at the Gryffindor table Neville Longbottom had managed to find a toad costume. I'm sure I would have found more costumes, but I was interrupted by a loud, slightly-effeminate and altogether cowardly Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's entrance and my own mind kicking me in the back of the head with what I'd forgotten.

"TROLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!" Quirrell screamed as he ran in, before screeching to a halt before the staff table. "Thought you ought to know," he added before fainting dead away. The room erupted into panic before Dumbledore stood and bellowed for quiet.

The room dropped immediately into silence, and looking at the old man's face, I could see, finally, the man who had dueled the Dark Lord Grindelwald to a standstill years ago, and knew from the determined look in his eyes and the way he held the Elder Wand so authoritatively why he was the only one the Dark Lord ever feared.

"Prefects, escort your students back to your houses. Staff, come with me to the dungeons." He said it with absolute calm, as if encountering a troll were no more trouble for him than for the Eldest Wizarding Goat Gruff in my story. I somehow doubted Dumbledore would use the Killing Curse on it, though. That seemed mildly out of character for him.

As we filed out, and I brushed past MacMillan as he followed his prefect to Hufflepuff, my mind smacked me with the second half of my remembrance. Damn Ronald Weasley, he'd basically disowned Granger, and Potter with him, and now she was out crying somewhere completely oblivious to the troll because her Heroic Gryffindor Friends had abandoned her.

I winced. I looked around for a staff member, but they'd all gone. I winced again. I hesitated for just a moment – she _was_ a Muggle-born, I really wasn't supposed to care whether she lived or died – and then slipped away from the line and headed down toward the hallway I'd heard her run off to. Damn Weasleys and Potters and Gryffindors and stupid consciences.

Halfway down the hall, I saw the open door to the girl's bathroom, water leaking out from it, and a piercing scream echoing from the doorway. The troll is not in the dungeon, my rational mind processed while it went about shutting down the rest of my mind as a precaution against fear. I advanced slowly into the bathroom and found I had, apparently, been wrong about the complete arse and the Boy-Who-Lived. They had not abandoned their friend, nor run in fear from the rumors of the troll as I expected.

They were, however, frozen in fear as the twelve-foot mountain troll menaced my Potions partner.

"Can we move this along, gentlemen?" I asked, and two goat heads turned in shock toward me. "Today, please?" I pointed my wand at the troll, unsure if I'd even known a simple cutting charm as a first-year. Too late to worry about it now. "_DIFFINDO!_" I bellowed, and a ray of light sped toward the troll, doing absolutely nothing against its thick hide. Thankfully, Weasley and Potter managed to pick up the charm fairly quickly, and cries of "_DIFFINDO!_" echoed from the tiled walls. Even Granger got in on the action, rolling out of the way of the troll's club and grabbing her own wand.

Still, we were getting nowhere, and I wondered how these two had ever managed to kill it the first time. I knew I couldn't use the Killing Curse on it – entirely aside from blowing my cover as a first-year by casting a bloody Unforgivable curse, I hadn't ever managed to cast that particular spell. I could keep a half-decent Cruciatus going for a minute or two based on simple rage – never anything as cruel as Aunt Bellatrix – and my Imperius was second to none, but I truly didn't want to kill anyone or anything enough to make _Avada Kedavra_ work. Thankfully, I had other spells up my sleeve. One, even, had left a huge scar there, and I resolved to find out where Potter had learned it.

"Concentrate on its throat, all together," Granger yelled. "Maybe if all our spells hit it at once, it will wear it down!" I thought no such thing, but mentally wished her ten points to Gryffindor for actually using her brain – a rare trait in that house, to be sure.

I pointed my wand at the troll's throat, and after a few cutting charms to aim, whispered the spell Potter had cast on me in a bathroom all those years into the future: "_Sectumsempra!_" Blood fountained from the troll's throat and it pitched forward, hitting the ground in a mighty crash as Granger brought her arms up to her mouth in horror. I was a little sick, as well. A threat to us all it might have been, but I truly did not want to kill anything.

I was saved from my nausea by Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and a limping Snape arriving in the doorway.

"What on earth happened here?" McGonagall asked as we all turned to face her.

"Poetic irony, Professor?" I asked, in my most innocent voice. She clearly didn't get the joke, but Granger and Potter snorted as if stifling laughter, and Dumbledore even smiled. To my complete surprise, my Godfather had to turn around, and I saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he did. I had no idea where the second-most-favored servant of the Dark Lord had read a Muggle faery tale, but I certainly wasn't going to complain.

"If you could stow the sarcasm, Mister Malfoy, and explain what actually happened, perhaps we could get to the bottom of this?" McGonagall suggested, clearly miffed at both our actions and her being left out of the joke. I opened my mouth, closed it again, opened it once more to say something, and closed it, having thought better of it. Thankfully, the benefits of having an insufferable know-it-all around is that, well, she just doesn't shut up.

"I went looking for the troll," Granger said, lying straight to McGonagall's face as well as any Slytherin and making me more than a little proud that I'd rubbed off on her. "I've read about them and thought I could handle it myself. I was wrong, and it nearly killed me," she said, pouring on the regret. I was glad Snape wasn't looking at her. "Then Harry, Ron and Draco came along–"

"We were worried about her," Potter cut in, and Weasley nodded his assent, looking completely confused as to why I was there. I nodded my agreement, then took over.

"My father taught me the cutting charm as a means of self-defense," I claimed, and it was even sort of true, "And I tried it on the troll. Potter and Weasley joined in, and Granger was able to get around the troll and give us a bit of guidance, since the charms weren't really getting through its skin." Dumbledore nodded sagely.

"I am to assume, then, that you concentrated your spellwork on this area here?" he questioned, gesturing to the two-inch gash I'd cut into the troll's neck, which was still bleeding the beast out. We all nodded our assent, and he nodded as well, gravely. "As this incident involved two of our houses, Professors, I think I will take care of repercussions for this?" Professor Snape nodded, and after a moment, McGonagall did as well. The old man turned to us.

"Miss Granger, that was a very foolish thing you did," he admonished. "But I think you know that already?" She nodded. "Then I shall not assign you detention, and merely take five points from Gryffindor for a lesson hard learned," he said, and she nodded grimly. "Be that as it may, not many first-years could take on a fully-grown mountain troll and survive, let alone emerge victorious," he congratulated. "Therefore, it seems only fitting that I award five points to Gryffindor for each of you, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger, and five more to Slytherin for you, Mister Malfoy." I was surprised. Except for excellence in Potions and occasionally in Charms, I never earned points for my house.

"Thank you, sir," I said, actually meaning the respect in my voice for probably the first time ever. He smiled.

"And I would appreciate if you would send me the catalogue you found those transfiguration candies in," he added. "My brother Aberforth would likely be very interested in them." His smile thinned. "Now, off to bed with you all. Pip pip."

Not my worst Halloween ever, I must admit. Professor Snape, after examining the wound, looked very intensely at me, and I could feel the first tendrils of curious Legilimency, but I pushed them aside. Later that evening, as I opened Advanced Potion-Making for the first time, I understood why. In the spidery handwriting I recognized as my Godfather's, which marked the book completely throughout with recipes and spells, I found one incantation written in the margins halfway through the book.

"Sectumsempra," I read quietly. "For enemies." So that's where Potter had picked it up – from this textbook belonging, apparently, to the "Half-Blood Prince," an odd name for my Godfather to adopt, to be sure. I wondered why. I marveled at the foolishness of casting an untried spell in the middle of a duel, but reasoned it had been remarkably effective for him. I remembered the pain that spell had caused, the violent wounds, the scarring, and my Godfather's strong voice casting a spell that sounded almost like singing.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: So, that just happened. My mind, it goes into strange places during November. -mb**


	11. Quidditch, Bitches!

**Chapter 11: Quidditch, Bitches!**

_**In which a Death Eater attacks Harry Potter's broom and Draco learns of the hiding of the Philosopher's Stone**_

"184. When operating a military vehicle I may not_ attempt something 'I saw in a cartoon'."_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

The similarities between Quidditch and a dogfight are less eerie when you're actually playing Quidditch than they are later, but let it not be said that the game is too much less dangerous. Sure, nobody is blasting green light and eldritch death at you, but get smacked too hard with a bludger – like the one that one of the Weasley Twins slammed my way not a minute in to the Gryffindor / Slytherin game, and you'll fall to your serious bodily harm never the less.

I dodged. The twins were no slouches when it came to Beater skill, but one, I was riding my own Nimbus 2000 – only Potter could really keep up with me – and two, I had plenty of practice. Plus, you know, having actually been in a dogfight thanks to the Dark Lord's desire to put me in as much danger as possible that final year of combat, I had some skill dodging Weasley-driven damage.

"And Malfoy dodges a rather fast bludger there, hit of course by one of Gryffindor's finest Weasley twins," Lee Jordan commentated. "This is, according to Madame Hooch, the first match in more than fifty years to have a first-year playing, and the first in more than a century to have more than one," he added.

"Right you are, Lee, and due to the events of Black Friday, the Slytherin Team is almost entirely first-years," Theo Nott added, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice once more. "Only team captain Marcus Flint remains on the team from the older students – oh, and that's Blaise Zabani with the Quaffle now, heading toward the Gryffindor goals where Keeper and Team Captain Oliver Wood spent all last year shutting down the chasers on the opposing teams, and Zabini will shoot–"

"And a brilliant block by Wood," Jordan cut in. "But the real story here are the two first-year Seekers, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, who are both playing in their first match here. They're both on Nimbus 2000s, too, which should put them pretty evenly matched." Theo nodded.

"Absolutely, Lee, though I'm interested to see how Potter does in an actual game, since he'd never been on a broom before Hogwarts," he added. Jordan snorted.

"I think with a little Gryffindor courage, he'll make it through – and Quidditch is in his blood, too," he added. "Harry's dad James was a top-notch player in his time, too." I let their continuous drone filter into one part of my head and spent most of my attention on finding that frustrating little golden ball.

Across the field, I could see Potter doing the same. Good, this should be a challenge. He was damn good, as I recalled, even as a first-year – though admittedly, I hadn't played against him until my second year. I looked over to the Slytherin stands, half expecting to see my father there, watching, but there was nothing. No shock of blonde hair, no flash off his silver cane. Only the nearly-emotionless face of my Godfather, a few finely dressed alumni, and our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"It looks like Potter's seen the Snitch!" Jordan cried, and I yanked my attention back to the game. Sure enough, the Boy-Who-Lived was in a deep dive, and I started to follow him, before I realized there was nothing there. I pulled up quickly, before I could lose my attention, and ducked another bludger before resuming my methodical scan of the field.

"And a classic Wronski Feint by Potter – not sure where he learned that, probably Oliver Wood – but Malfoy doesn't fall for it," Theo said, upstaging Jordan a bit.

"Right you are, Theodore," Jordan grumbled, "But with Gryffindor in the lead 50 to 20, Malfoy can't let Potter catch the Snitch now. Every minute it stays out, Gryffindor's three lovely Chasers will keep scoring until the Snitch doesn't even matter – speaking of which, that's Angelina Johnson on her way toward the Slytherin goals, Tracey Davis looking rather out of her element as the Keeper, and – yes, she barely saved that one, but Katie Bell recovers it and looks to be going for another shot."

I furiously looked around for the Snitch, but the golden ball of doom wasn't showing itself. Across the field, Potter was doing the same, with the same look of confused frustration. Meanwhile, Tracey managed to block Bell's shot, but Alicia Spinnet picked up the Quaffle this time.

"And it looks like the Gryffindor Chasers are just mobbing Slytherin Keeper Tracey Davis," Theo said. "She's done an excellent job holding them off so far, but unless someone does something, that score's just going to keep getting more lopsided–" There was a resounding crack, sudden silence, and then a muted thud.

"It looks like Katie Bell is down," Jordan said, somberly, and suddenly, the whiffling of the Quaffle was gone. "Slytherin Beaters Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle teamed up and sent both bludgers heading toward her at once, knocking her off and cracking her broom, and yes, Oliver Wood has called a time-out." For one, it looked like Nott had nothing to say. Both captains flew down to the pitch along with Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall. Things were tense for a moment, and even Crabbe and Goyle looked a little sheepish.

Then the stands – Slytherin and Gryffindor supporters alike – erupted in cheers as Katie Bell, assisted by her head of house, got up and limped off the field. I exhaled in relief – I'd already had to watch Katie Bell almost die because of me once. I had no desire to relieve that scene, but it looked like she only had a broken leg, maybe even just a sprain.

After a quick discussion, it looked like Wood didn't have an alternate for Bell, so Gryffindor faced the choice of playing one Chaser down or forfeiting. I don't know why Madame Hooch even bothered asking - "get it or die trying" was Oliver Wood's motto, and quitting wasn't even an option. I smiled as both captains rose into the air, glaring at each other – but Flint's glare carried with it the vaguest hints of approval. He didn't want to win. Marcus Flint wanted to conquer.

"And we're good to go in five, four, three, two, one!" Theo counted down, and Madame Hooch blew her whistle. "And it's Zabini with the Quaffle, and he passes to Finnegan, and him back to Marcus Flint, and Spinnet and Johnson can't keep up with this power trio!" Theo was, clearly, as biased as his counterpart, but there was something fair about that, to be sure.

Meanwhile, I resumed searching for the Snitch. As I heard the repeated clang of goals being scored, I ignored the now-tied game and watched the sky, the pitch – and there it was. Glinting like a miniature sun as it hovered over the staff table, the Golden Snitch seemed like it was just mocking us. Potter saw it, too – I could tell. He straightened on his broom, met my gaze, and the moment was over.

We were off, and there was nothing in my world except my broom, the Snitch and Potter. We were on the way to destruction, both of us pushing our Nimbus 2000s – Nimbi 2000? – to top speed, rocketing between the stands and the pitch as the elusive golden ball sped away from us. We were twin engines of nothing but speed, red and gold, green and silver, and I had never felt more alive than I did at this point, racing for the Snitch with Harry Potter.

Almost too soon, it was over. I heard gasps, then Potter fell behind. I couldn't even look: the Snitch was still speeding away from me and I continued to chase it down. For what seemed like an eternity, I, with hand outstretched, chased the ball, furious at Potter for abandoning me – and then he was behind me, trying to catch up, but our brooms were matched. I could not fail, and as my fingers closed around the golden ball and a cheer rose from half the stands, I scowled.

We hadn't even made it to the ground before people came out from both teams, and Potter, getting off his broom, was the target of my ire.

"I thought I was going to play a real game today, Potter," I yelled, and he looked at me, nearly in shock. "But no, you go and back off." I was this close to shoving him, but I rather wanted to avoid detention. "Did you think you didn't have to try? That because I was a reserve player, you were somehow better?" Potter opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by someone speaking for him.

"Come off it, Malfoy," the mop of red hair – Ron Weasley, I realized – said. "He only nearly got hexed off his broom by your bloody head of house." Potter shushed him.

"Good game," he said, bitterly, and the Gryffindors left the field. I stood confused. Why would my Godfather hex Potter off his broom? I felt a rush of pride for a moment that he would cheat to help me, then it left – he knew as well as I did how much pride meant to me and that I'd never ask him to do that. There had to be something else at work.

After showers, I made my way down to the dungeon. Professor Snape's office wasn't too far from the Potions classroom itself; I'd been able to find it before, certainly.

"Professor?" I tentatively asked, knocking at the iron-shod door. It opened a crack, revealing my Godfather's hooked nose.

"Yes, Mister Malfoy?" he asked, opening the door further to reveal his sallow face. "Can I help you, godson?" he added, a bit more quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear the Potions Master acting like a human being.

"May I come in?" I asked, respectfully. He nodded, and opened the door fully to allow me in. The office was as functional as his classroom, shelves upon shelves stacked to the ceiling with potions ingredients, rare herbs and completely unidentifiable substances. A tiny desk sat in the center, a dry quill lying next to a stoppered bottle of ink. He sat down behind it.

"Did you have a question about the assignment due Monday, Draco?" he asked, and I shook my head.

"Actually, Godfather, I had another question," I allowed. I had to be careful here; I didn't want to accuse my Godfather of anything, especially since I knew he really hadn't done anything. He raised a black eyebrow.

"Go on," he said. I did.

"Why would Ron Weasley assume you were hexing Potter's broom?" I asked carefully, seeing the look of anger writ large over his face. "Especially as I know you wouldn't interfere in a match like that when you know how much winning meant to me?" He softened a bit.

"One moment," he said. "I need to verify something first." That was all the warning I got before his mind stabbed into mine. I through up shields as quickly as I could, but his probe was nothing like Bellatrix's. Aunt Bella stabbed straight in and kept pushing as strongly as she could, thinking to overwhelm the mind's defenses – and given Aunt Bellatrix's formidable mind, she often succeeded.

Professor Snape – even thinking of him as my Godfather could give him an opening – struck multiple places at once, pulling out quickly and striking again elsewhere, and as fast as my mind could conjure Occlumency shields, his Legilimency found new areas to strike. It was like fighting six battles at once in my head, and I did so as best I could, devoting a fifth of my mind to locking down memories in hardened Occlumency bunkers, where a sustained assault would be needed to find them, and using the remainder of my mind to conjure weaker shields to ward off each assault.

As soon as I realized that he was only staying long enough in each mental location to distract me, I weakened those shields – and as soon as Professor Snape noticed that, he suddenly struck faster and more. Eight battles became sixteen, which became thirty-two before my shields began to collapse and I felt him picking at my hardened barriers. With one final push, I concentrated all of my reserves save the one area at which he was currently pushing, and pushed back into his mind. Suddenly, all pressure was gone.

"Well done, Draco," he said. "I might, under other circumstances, wonder how your Occlumency progressed so far. Obviously you have learned from more than a mere book." I nodded, but kept my secrets. He smiled thinly.

"What I am about to tell you is a secret known only to a few members of the staff," he said. "Professor Dumbledore is hiding at this very minute an substance known alternatively as the Philosopher's Stone or the Sorcerer's Stone, depending on who you ask."

I boggled. I'd never known. I'd heard something about Potter and Voldemort, or maybe Quirrell, or something like that first year, but had just assumed it was some cock-and-bull gossip to inflate Potter's ego and get him out of trouble. My Godfather nodded.

"I can't prove it yet, as the Stone is guarded by many teachers, but Professor Quirrell is trying to steal it," he said. I nodded. That made sense, if he'd been working for Voldemort. But I needed him to say it.

"Why would Professor Quirrell want to steal the Stone?" I asked. "He's a Hogwarts Professor. Couldn't he just ask to use some of the Elixer of Life, or for some gold, or something?" Professor Snape shook his greasy head.

"I don't think he wants it for himself," he said. "I..." he paused, as if unsure to continue. "You must not tell your father what I am about to speculate," he said. "Can you do that for me, Draco?" He was placing an awful lot of trust in me. "It would put him in a dangerous position if he knew." There it was. The bait for the hook. Thankfully, I had no intention of telling my father anything about the stone.

"I promise not to tell him, Godfather," I said. He nodded.

"I have been watching Professor Quirrell rather closely," he said. "Upon his return from Albania, he was no longer acting like the charming Muggle Studies professor we all knew and... reminded me more of... other acquaintences of mine." He grimaced. "Do you know your father's acquaintences? Mister Mulciber, Mister Dolohov? For that matter, your friends Crabbe and Goyle's fathers?" I swallowed.

"Death Eaters," I said flatly. "You're saying Professor Quirrell is a Death Eater?" He nodded.

"I am under the impression that he returned from Albania with a mission," Professor Snape drawled. This time I was one step ahead of him.

"Quirrell is fetching the Philosopher's Stone for the Dark Lord," I guessed, and was rewarded with a nod. "And you're trying to stop him, because you really are Dumbledore's man, not a double-agent like you played at during the war." He grimaced, but continued nodding.

"If I hear you've breathed a word of this to your father, I will have to obliviate you and deny everything," he said. "And I assure you, Draco, I am more than capable of doing that without getting caught. I lifted the corner of my mouth in a parody of a smile.

"My lips are sealed, Godfather. But you've not completely answered my question." His thin smile returned.

"Your Potions partner caught me muttering a counter-curse, trying to keep Potter's broom stable," he said. "Naturally, she assumed the worst – and I believe she is responsible for my robe suddenly catching fire," he added, "For which I will be taking five points from Gryffindor, to be sure." He grinned ferally. "Fortunately, her blundering also broke Quirrell's eye contact. You see, a Death Eater has little desire to see the boy who conquered the Dark Lord at a year old alive and in the way at eleven." My grin got a bit wider.

"That does answer my question, Professor. I think I'll be going now," I added. He nodded, then returned to his work at the table. As I was halfway out the door, I turned. "Godfather," I said, and he looked up. "Thanks for coming to the match. It was nice to have family there." He smiled thinly as I shut the door.


	12. Letters from Home

**Chapter 12: Letters from Home**

_**In which a Draco forms an alliance with the Boy-Who-Lived, Narcissa Malfoy sends some advice from the home front, and Draco's bad month continues to get worse**_

"123. I should not teach other soldiers to say offensive and crude things in Albanian, under the guise of teaching them how to say potentially useful phrases._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"Granger, I need to meet with Potter," I said, as I passed her my magnum opus, three feet of parchment on the uses of Dragon's Blood in Potions. She snorted as she passed the stack of papers up to the next row.

"Traditionally, one simply says something to the person with whom one wishes to speak," she snipped. "Something along the lines of 'Hey, Harry, can we talk for a moment?' " I rolled my eyes.

"And exactly how well do you think that would have gone?" I said. "If Professor Snape doesn't just dock points for me yelling across the room, do you think your fellow Gryffindors would take well to me chatting up the Boy-Who-Lived? What about my Slytherin friends?" I sneered. "No, I need you to arrange the meeting."

"Fine," she said, sighing. "Where and when?" I started to answer her, but she cut me off. "And it needs to be before lights out. He's not falling for any Midnight Duel / Filch shenanigans again." I had the grace to blush a bit.

"Fine. Immediately after lunch, head to the seventh floor. You know the portrait of Barnabus the Barmy trying to teach those trolls to dance?" She nodded. "Walk back and forth by there three times, thinking 'I need to speak with Draco Malfoy,' and you'll figure it out from there." She opened her mouth to say something else, but I quickly flipped my eyes from hers to my Godfather, warningly, and she shut up.

**-o-o-o-**

"What is this place?" Weasley was asking as he walked into the Room. I was sitting at a high-backed chair at what for all the world looked like a negotiating table as the Golden Trio walked in. Predictably, Granger had an answer.

"Merlin, Draco, you've found the Room of Requirement!" she said, in awe. "I read about it in–"

"_Hogwarts: A History,_" Weasley and Potter finished for her. I smirked.

"It's also known as the Come and Go Room, if that helps," I added, drawing their attention back to me. "Shut the door." As they did so, two additional chairs appeared on Potter's side of the table. "And please, sit down. I'd offer you something to eat, but it looks like you've just come from lunch," I added, my smirk getting even wider as I cut into the lovely steak the House Elves had prepared for me. Potter cut to the chase.

"You wanted to meet, Malfoy?" he asked, rather redundantly. I finished chewing – just because I should keep something resembling table manners, for one, and for two, because it was fun watching Weasley's face match his hair.

"Indeed I did," I said, washing down my steak with a glass of juice. The elves still stubbornly refused to serve me wine here. Damn being eleven again. "I wanted to let you know who actually hexed your broom Saturday," I added, before Weasley's head could explode.

"We know what happened!" the ginger said. "Snape cursed the broom, Hermione set his robes on fire, and you stole the Snitch from him!" I rolled my eyes.

"Alternately, I could tell you what actually happened, if you're at all interested," I said. Granger, at least, had the courtesy to look interested, and Potter nodded.

"Let's hear your side, then, go on," he said. I smiled.

"Quirrell cursed you, Professor Snape was trying to save you, and when Granger set my Godfather's robes on fire, it distracted Quirrell, breaking his eye contact. Quirrell, not Professor Snape, is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone." Potter tilted his head.

"What's the Philosopher's Stone?" he asked, and Granger gasped.

"Draco, can this room summon books from elsewhere in the castle?" she asked, but I didn't have to answer as a huge, mouldy tome appeared – thwack – on the table in front of us. "I checked this out months ago for a bit of light reading," she explained – as if that explained anything, though admittedly with Granger it sort of did. "There it is," she said, pausing. "Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone, which turns base metals into gold and produces the Elixer of Immortality." I nodded.

"Can you imagine what would happen if, say, someone working toward the Dark Lord's return, got a hold of that?" I asked, quasi-rhetorically. Weasley shuddered and Granger grimaced, but Potter looked interested.

"You're saying Professor Quirrell is working for Voldemort?" he asked, and this time, I shuddered along with Weasley and Granger.

"Could you, perhaps, not say his name?" I asked. Memories of his pale face, glowing eyes and cruelty flooded back, and I tried to hold them back. It was as much a losing battle as my mental showdown with Snape was earlier. Potter shook his head.

"Afraid of the name, too?" he asked, and I didn't correct him. "But if Quirrell is trying to steal it, why hasn't he made a move yet?" I shook my head.

"My Godfather is trying to protect it, along with probably the other heads of houses," I said. Potter looked confused."

"I'm sorry, your Godfather?" he asked. Apparently he'd missed that earlier, being so focused on the Philosopher's Stone.

"Professor Snape is my Godfather," I said, and Weasley blanched.

"He's your Godfather? No wonder you turned out so–" and Granger kicked him, hard. That was kind of satisfying, actually. I never thought the bushy-haired Muggle-born had it in her. I snorted, though.

"Yes, Weasley, and that makes him family, which I'm actually quite convinced you understand," I sneered. He looked insulted for a moment, but it was clear he wasn't entirely sure why he was supposed to feel that way. Chalk one up for my side.

"In any event, it's being guarded," I said. Potter nodded.

"By a three-headed dog named Fluffy," he said. "Hagrid's helping guard it too," he added, then started. "Wait! On Halloween, Professor Snape had an injured leg." I was startled. I'd completely forgotten.

"What if Quirrell let the troll in?" Granger suggested. "Then, once the teachers were headed to the dungeons, he went to the third-floor corridor?" Weasley nodded.

"Then Snape must have headed him off," he said, looking mildly queasy about attributing anything heroic to my Godfather. "And got bit for his troubles," he added, looking a little too thrilled by it. Well, maybe if he wasn't constantly skiving off in class, my Godfather would treat him better.

"Why are you telling us all this, Malfoy?" Potter asked. I took a long swig of my juice, finishing it off.

"I'm glad you asked that, Potter, because I was wondering the same thing." I leaned over the table, putting down the glass. "I want in on whatever it is you're planning. It's going to be epic, and I want along for the ride."

"No, Harry, we can't," Weasley said. "We promised Hagrid we wouldn't tell anybody, and we've already broke that promise." Granger shook her head.

"Hagrid didn't know about Quirrell trying to steal it," she said, "And just look at how he reacted when Harry tried to convince him Professor Snape was trying to steal the Stone." Potter nodded.

"Hermione's right, having more information is a good thing," he said. "Malfoy, you're in on this. We'll meet here after the Holidays and compare notes, yeah?" I nodded, then decided to add something more to this.

"If we're going after Quirrell, you should probably learn to defend yourself," I said. "It would be a shame if the Boy-Who-Lived managed to track down the Death Eater and then had nothing to do with him once he caught him." Potter nodded.

"There's a few books on combat spells in the library," Granger said, and added, "And we could stand to learn a bit more about Flamel while we're at it," to Weasley's groan.

"We've already checked through the library entirely," he whinged. Goyle, you've got some competition here. First-runner-up whinger of the year goes to Ronald Something Weasley. Granger just smirked, and I really was amused at how much I was rubbing off on her.

"Not in the restricted section," she said. "Anyway, I'm heading home for Christmas Hols, so you three should have ample time to search for information without any interference," she added, casting a look my way. She was right, too – none of the Slytherin first-years were staying at Hogwarts, and most of the upper years were going home as well. We nodded our agreement, and I suggested they should leave first.

"Wouldn't want to be seen wandering the halls with a bunch of Gryffindors," I drawled. Granger rolled her eyes, and Salazar help me, Potter even smiled. They left.

A few minutes later, I made my exit as well, and wasn't twenty feet down the corridor before my family's enormous Eagle Owl came flying down the corridor, dropping a letter in my startled hands. Apparently, I'd had mail at lunch. He didn't even bother to stay for treats; rather, he winged his way back to the owlery.

I opened the letter, recognizing the Malfoy crest on the wax seal. Judging by the handwriting, it was from my mother.

_Dearest Draco,_ it read. _I hear many things about your first term at Hogwarts, and not all of them are good. While your father and I are quite proud of you for making the Slytherin Quidditch team – and congratulations to you for your victory against Gryffindor; I'm sorry I couldn't make it – other things that reach our ears are more disturbing._

_I'm told that you and a trio of Gryffindors confronted a troll last Halloween. While I am proud of you for defeating a creature many times your size, I – and your father – am concerned about your association with these three. While Harry Potter comes from a prestigious family, his parents' opposition to the Dark Lord could put your father in an awkward situation should you continue to grow closer. As for Ronald Weasley, you know your father's opinion of that family._

_I should not even have to speak to you in regards to the Muggle-born Witch. You know where we stand on that subject. Apparently, however, I must talk to you regardless – your Godfather tells us he is quite proud of you for your Potions grade, so imagine our surprise when, from other sources, we find you voluntarily have spent much of this year with her? Tread carefully, Draco dearest. Your family's pride is at stake, as is our honor. More than one, I should say, for you are half a Black in addition to being a Malfoy, and a Black is Always Pure._

_I think it might be best if you stay at Hogwarts over the Holidays and re-examine your priorities, Draco. Your father is in a right state, and saying the wrong thing around him just now would be unwise. We both, of course, miss you dearly, but I think it might be for the best._

_Love always,_

_Your mother._

I put away the letter with fingers almost numb. My mother was trying to warn me of more than just my father's foul temper – with the comment about a Black being Always Pure, she was telling me how close my father was to disowning me like the Blacks did to Cousin Sirius before he went all evil. I would have to accomplish much over Christmas Holidays; this was all going faster than I had ever intended, and I was not liking the pace at which it was proceeding.

I swallowed my worries and fears, however. It would not do to show the other Slytherins any weakness. Blaise might let me get away with it – he understood family eccentricities better than anyone else in the dorm – and Seamus was barely a Slytherin anyway, but I could only imagine what would happen if Theo saw me falter. Needless to say, it would not be good.

I walked down to the dungeons, hoping to catch my Godfather before class. I needed to ask him a favor.


	13. Spinner's End and Diagon Alley

**Chapter 13: Spinner's End and Diagon Alley**

_**In which Professor Severus Snape is host to his Godson over the Holidays, and many Christmas Presents are purchased for diverse friends and family.**_

"106. I may not trade my rifle for any of the following: Cigarettes, booze, sexual favors, Kalishnikovs, Soviet Armored vehicles, small children, or bootleg CDs._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"Thank you for allowing me to stay here over the Holidays, Godfather," I said, shouldering a bag that should have been more heavy, filled as it was with clothing and such. Thank Salazar for undetectable extension charms and heavy canvas rucksacks. Also in my bag was hair-gel-curse-remover, which had conveniently arrive this morning before my Godfather and I had walked down to Hogsmeade. I had every intention of using it tonight.

He'd pulled me Side-Along to Spinner's End, where a little house on a corner stood as the unassuming Snape residence. Now I stood in the doorway, and he was just inside, as if waiting for me to make a comment on how poor this home was, and I'd done just the opposite.

"It meets my needs," he said, followng my gaze to the tiny flat. "And I am glad to have you here, Draco, if only for the holidays. You'll find a spare room upstairs, to the right – I apologize that it may not meet your standards," he added sardonically. "It has, after all, been some time since I entertained guests." I smiled and trooped upstairs.

The spare room was a little dusty, to be sure, but I was staying in a Wizard's house. There was little chance of receiving an owl from the Ministry if I used a couple cleaning charms to make it habitable. Otherwise, it was no worse a room than my dormitory in the Slytherin dungeons. If anything, it was nice to have the small window looking out onto Muggle London.

I dropped my bag off on my now-much-cleaner bed and grabbed the bottle of curse-remover. Heading out into the hall, I called down to my Godfather.

"Godfather, which of these doors is the water closet?" I asked, and he walked upstairs.

"On the end, there," he said, then eyed the bottle of curse-remover. "You do realize I could have brewed something for you, had you asked?" he said, smiling thinly at my grimace. "At this juncture, however, I would appreciate it if you would hold off on your grooming issues – it has been a long time since I've had a proper shower, and I think we would all appreciate it if I took care of that first," he said.

I realized that, hovering over potions all day as he did, the grease which seemed so habitual was likely not his by choice. I nodded, heading downstairs to take inventory of the house while my Godfather cleaned himself.

I found a bookshelf to occupy me – a term of partnering with Granger in Potions had conditioned me a little more than I liked, but between that and my Godfather's Potions book, I gravitated toward the written word more than I ever had before. I thumbed across several shelves of wizarding books and one shelf of Muggle ones – the complete works of Shakespeare I recognized from Seamus' description. On the bottom shelf, I found a Hogwarts Yearbook dated much earlier this century. On the front was an inscribed name: Eileen Prince.

Of course, I thought. My Godfather would have been proud of being a 'Half-Blood Prince.' That's where the name must have come from.

Another Prince caught my eye as I scanned the bookshelf, and fully an hour later, my Godfather descended the stairs in clean robes and much less greasy hair to find me sitting in an armchair, fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, reading Machiavelli.

"How very Slytherin of you," my Godfather said. "I see you've discovered my bookshelf." I smiled, then remembered something.

"Actually, Godfather, I have a book of yours, I think," I said, carefully closing _The Prince _on a bookmark – Granger had beaten library discipline into me all but literally – and rushing upstairs. I came down with a much dog-eared copy of _Advanced Potion-Making. _"I think this is yours, Godfather," I said, presenting the book to him. "I can buy a new copy in Diagon Alley later on." He stared at it.

"That explains about the troll, certainly," he said. "Let me guess: _sectumsempra_?" I nodded, and he shook his head. "Keep it, Draco," he added. "Buy a new one for the classroom, if you like. Just be sure to come to me with any questions before testing out an unknown spell," he added. Like anyone would be foolish enough just to test a spell they read in a book without knowing what it did. I nodded.

"Would it be possible to go to Diagon Alley later on, then?" I asked. "Not tonight, of course, but perhaps tomorrow?" He nodded.

"I have some shopping to do myself – potions ingredients and the like," he said. "And given the recent improvement in your awareness of others," he added, "and don't deny it," he continued as I scowled, "I might assume you wish to purchase presents for your fellow Slytherins?" I nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Very well, we shall go on the morrow," he added. Now I did look at him.

"Godfather, you've already done much for me, but I have another favor to ask, if I may?" I asked. He raised an eyebrow, but motioned me to continue. Wordlessly, I handed him my mother's letter, and watched his face darken as he read it. When he was finished, he handed the letter back to me.

"You're worried about Lucius and Narcissa disowning you," he said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "And you want me to take you to Gringotts and make sure you have something to live on if they do," he added, perceptively. I nodded again. He paused for a moment, then nodded his head once. "Of course I'll assist you, Draco," he said again. "As your Godfather, I'm glad you came to me with this." He walked into the kitchen, and I heard the fwoosh of gas jets lighting. "Did you want bell peppers with your sausage?" he asked.

I shook my head. If someone had told me I'd ever see Severus Snape cooking, I might have hexed them for stupidity. My Godfather, the Potions Master, stuck his head back out the door.

"Well?" he said. I nodded, and he nodded. We did a lot of nodding, this little family of ours. "Go fix your hair," he said. "I'll take care of dinner." And with that, he was back in the kitchen, as at home in that element as he might have been in a potions lab. I walked back upstairs, still shaking my head.

"Dobby," I whispered, as soon as I was back in my room. There was a little pop, and suddenly a house-elf was cringing on my bed.

"Master Draco calls and Dobby comes," he whimpered. Suddenly I felt absolutely awful. I'd been a shit to everyone around me, sure, but they were human beings. I'd been less than human to this pathetic little elf who now cringed away from me on my bed. "Does Master Draco need to vent his frustrations on Dobby again, now that Master Draco is not at school?" he asked. No, I thought, I really, really didn't want to do that.

"No, Dobby, please stop cringing," I said, as kindly as I could. He looked at me in complete surprise. "I need you to get me my Gringott's key, if you could, Dobby," I said. He stood up then, determination in his eyes.

"Who are you and why do you look like Master Draco?" he queried, shaking a fist in my face. "Master will punish Dobby for his stupidity if Dobby falls for trick like this!" I winced. How horrible had I been, if merely treating Dobby like he was a poor servant made him doubt my identity completely. I held my hands out.

"It's me, Dobby. I'm Draco Malfoy," I said. "You've known me since I was a baby." Dobby cringed.

"Master Draco has never been polite to Dobby. How do I know you're really him?" he asked, as if expecting to be beaten for his questioning. I sighed, and took out my wand. Dobby shrieked and began crying, burying his head in his hands. I poked at him with the wand.

"Do you recognize this wand, Dobby?" I asked, firmly. "You were with my father when we bought it from Mr. Ollivander's shop." The house elf removed one hand from his face to peer at the wand with one eye.

"Hawthorn and Unicorn Hair, is it?" Dobby asked. I nodded, and he straightened up. "Master Draco? It really is you?" I nodded again. "Dobby is getting Master Draco's key from his nightstand." I held out a hand.

"Dobby, can you keep this secret from my father?" I asked. He started trembling.

"I can, Master Draco, but only if Master Draco orders it. Otherwise I have to tell Master Lucius anything he asks." I nodded.

"Dobby, I order you to take my Gringotts key from Malfoy Manor, telling no one what you have done. I will give you a duplicate to replace it with when you return, which I order you to do. Do you understand?" I said. The terrified little house elf nodded, then, Salazar help me, he saluted.

"Dobby is following Master Draco's orders and Dobby is telling no one," he said, then disapparated with a pop. I grabbed a shirt from my rucksack and transfigured it into a replica key, then stuck a permanency charm on it. It should last for at least the rest of term, which was all I really needed. Dobby re-appeared.

"Dobby is having Master Draco's key," he said, holding the brass key out to me. I took it.

"Thank you, Dobby," I said, and watched him squirm.

"Master Draco has never thanked Dobby before," he said. "Dobby is used to death threats instead," he added, and I'd swear he was going for maximum guilt trip here. I smirked.

"Don't push it, Dobby," I said, handing him the replica key. "And keep your head down, okay? I'd be put out if you got hurt," I added, remembering the Charge of the Hogwarts Elves and the bullfrog voice of the Noble Elf of Black leading them on to battle, and having no desire to be on the receiving end of that kind of crusade. Dobby even managed to crack a smile before disapparating this time.

**-o-o-o-**

Diagon Alley was bustling these few days before Christmas, and after a short stop at Gringotts, I made my way to Quality Quidditch Supplies to take care of most of my Christmas Shopping. I knew this was likely the last Christmas I'd be able to give expensive gifts, so I decided to set peoples' expectations low to start with. I'd managed to set up a sizable account for myself, apart from my parents and without their ability to make withdrawals from it – as it was in my Godfather's name – and would probably be fine to live for a while on it, especially if I was frugal. Still, it never hurt to be cautious, and I knew I'd be missing having plenty of Galleons available sooner rather than later.

A set each of shinguards and pads designed especially for Beaters went off via owl for Crabbe and Goyle, along with a congratulatory note on our first game and the hopes that one day, we'd all play together professionally. A man can dream.

Seamus would be the proud recipient of an Ireland jersey, something I assumed he already had about 10 of, but could probably use more. Also in the shop was a hand-held loudspeaker imbued with a _sonorus_ charm. I knew Theo probably wasn't expecting a gift, but I couldn't pass it by.

For Blaise, I wasn't entirely sure of what to get. A subscription to various magazines was right out – apparently, he already had the one he wanted. Beyond that, I didn't really know him as well as I'd once thought I did. I put him to the back of my mind and moved on to the next store.

Flourish and Blott's was that store, and I picked up the copy of _Advanced Potion-Making _for the Potions classroom to replace the one my Godfather had now gifted me. After a moment's hesitation, I bought a second copy, fully intending to send it to Granger to even the odds between us. I'd had my term of advantage.

Unfortunately, having bought a gift for Granger, I felt somewhat obligated to purchase something for the other two members of the Golden Trio. Strangely, Weasley was the easier of the two. I made a short side trip to Knockturn Alley, not at all worried about the image I was sending. I laughed at the irony of finding the perfect gift for a Weasley down in this haven of the Dark Arts, but as I ducked in to the scrivener/historian shop simply marked "Nobility," I knew I was right.

I left with a hand-etched, framed copy of the Weasley family crest from many years back, which cost a pretty penny. I knew it was probably nicer than anything else in that shabby house of theirs, but on the other hand, it would appeal to their family pride. I attached a note to the package, which simply read, "To my fellow troll-slayer: 'More balls than brains' is in your blood, but damn if I wasn't thankful for it when push came to shove. Truce?" I didn't have high hopes for it, but at least I tried.

While waiting for the scrivener, I made a second side-trip within the Alley itself, to Borgin and Burkes, where I picked up something I'd had my eye on for a while at that point. Lucius Malfoy might have objected to his son picking up the tool of a common thief, but a Hand of Glory was nothing to sniff at and, combined with Potter's invisibility cloak if my suspicions were correct about when he got that gift, was a recipe for great and daring deeds under the cover of darkness. It sounded like a fair descriptor of what happens when Slytherins and Gryffindors work together anyway.

With my Godfather still occupied in the apothecary, I let him know I was going to wander a little more. He didn't need to know where I was going, so I didn't tell him. I was thankful my robes were close enough to Muggle-wear today as to not draw attention, as I crossed the street from the Leaky Cauldron and entered a Muggle bookshop.

Potter ended up with a map of the London Underground, which I figured would serve him well if he was living with Muggles. I resolved to buy him a year-long pass, as well. Ready accessabilty to the tube could only benefit the Boy-Who-Lived if he ever had to make a quick getaway.

Then I saw it – the perfect gift for Blaise. I took it to the counter and paid with Muggle money – a strange thing, paper money, but the Goblins must have been getting a hell of an exchange rate for it because they were more than glad to be rid of it in favor of Galleons – and accepted the curious offer of gift-wrapping, opting for a simple green paper rather than the probably-more-festive red wrapping paper with snowmen in top hats and corncob pipes.

I attached a note, saying "Ignore that the author is a Muggle and just read it; you'll enjoy it. Happy Christmas – D.M." to the package and returned to Diagon Alley to send it, stopping only to get Potter's tube pass along the way. Gods alone knew what I was doing buying a copy of Machiavelli's _The Prince_ for Blaise Zabini, but it worked so well, I was satisfied.

I realized, as I returned to the alley, that I'd not purchased a gift for my Godfather. I frantically scanned the alley, wondering what to get him. Books were out – he had access to any book he wanted via the Hogwarts library and his own shelf. I debated getting him a snake or something, but worried it would end up the potions ingredients. Likewise, potions ingredients themselves seemed rather pedestrian, and Quidditch supplies were right out.

I walked by Eeylops Owl Emporium and took a look at the owls. A tiny barn owl winked up at me, far too cheerful for the snow outside, and hooted. I passed it by, passing by the eagle owls and the burrowing owls as well until I found what I was looking for in the back of the store. I paid for her, asked the clerk to send it round to Spinner's End come Christmas, and rejoined my Godfather.

I showed him the book for the Library, and the stack of packages, adding my thanks for introducing me to Muggle literature (and my promise to never, ever tell my father). At his strange look, I showed him Blaise's package, before sending them all to their intended recipients via owl. I wasn't sure what my Godfather made of me sending parcels to three Gryffindors, but he didn't say anything.

**-o-o-o-**

On Christmas Morning, as my Godfather and I drank coffee at his kitchen table, there was a knock at the door. My Godfather answered it, finding a gentleman delivering a covered cage with a note that said "Severus Snape." He brought it into the kitchen, finding it hooted a bit as he jangled the cage and placed it on the table, and raised an eyebrow at me.

"I assume you had something to do with this?" he asked. I smiled, and gestured to him to unveil the cage. He did, with a dramatic flourish, and narrowed his eyes.

The tiniest Screech Owl I had ever laid eyes on was hooting merrily in the cage at my Godfather, and her feathers were glossy black. Her huge eyes even looked as dark as my Godfather's own.

"What's... what's her name?" He asked, and I realized he was almost overcome with emotion. I tilted my head.

"The Eeylops clerk said her name was Lily," I said, and nearly missed the sudden intake of breath on my Godfather's side of the table. I continued, acting oblivious and filing away the reaction to that name for later. "He said nobody had wanted to buy her, because she was flighty and has a bit of a temper," I added. "But apparently, once you get to know her, she's very devoted." He sighed.

"She would be..." he said, almost wistfully, then shook his head. "Thank you, Draco, and Happy Christmas," he added, before grabbing a package from under the chair. "I'm afraid my gift may have been a trifle last-minute, but I hope it serves you well," he said. I unwrapped it slowly and found a book, completely hand-written, lying within. My Godfather looked at me.

"These are the notes I kept my seventh year," he said. "Your Potions book has many from my sixth, but I learned much in my final year at Hogwarts that I didn't want to share with future students," he added. "I will thank you to use that knowledge with the same discretion you would use _Advanced Potion-Making_," he said, looking stern at me. It came easily to him.

Lily hooted her agreement, and my Godfather took her out of her cage. She immediately gravitated to his shoulder, black owl on black robes, and rubbed against the curtain of his hair.

"Go, then," he said. "You received other gifts this morning via Owl-Post, and you'll be wanting to open them." I looked around for his, but he shook his head. "Dumbledore sent me a fruitcake, and McGonagall a holiday card," he said. "It's nice to know I have friends on staff," he added, half-scowling, half smiling.

I cheerfully began opening presents, noting the usual bit of Quidditch gear from Crabbe and Goyle, a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ from Seamus – a newer edition than I had, to be sure, which was nice of him, a Snitch from Theo, which was both princely and useless. Blaise sent only a note, but when I read it, I boggled.

"My fellow conspirator," his note read. "My actual gift will have to wait until school returns, as I have the means to smuggle it in to Hogwarts and you, if rumor is true, don't at present. Still, we'll have to find somewhere for me to remind you how to use a sword, since you're getting one. - Blaise Zabini."

Even Granger had sent me something – a fat Muggle book entitled "The Way Things Work," with an interesting (frozen, because hey, Muggle book) image involving mammoths on the front cover – and a note.

"Draco – didn't know about the Owl orders until you said something about it in your note, but thank you for the gift. I had the owl bring this in return; it might give you some insight into the Muggle world. Dad loves it. - Hermione Granger. P.S.: Would it kill you to use my first name in a Christmas Card? Dad thought it was for him for some reason."

I chuckled at that. It was somewhat unlikely that I would be using Granger's first name any time soon. We weren't friends, after all. Just Potions partners. I could keep telling myself that all year long if I wanted to. My Godfather raised that infuriating eyebrow of his.

"Exchanging Christmas gifts now, are we?" he drawled. "What would your father think?" I paled even more so than usual, but he then winked. "Worry not, Godson," he said. "One more secret for me to keep." I smiled, and his thin grin met it.

"I'll try not to overburden the Head of Slytherin with secrets to keep," I drawled back. "Truly, it must be entirely out of character for you." He scowled, but good-naturedly. "Honestly, Godfather, thank you for that." He nodded, then the scowl darkened as an absolutely gorgeous snowy owl knocked politely at the window.

"Potter, too?" he observed, as he opened the window to the cold air outside and let the bird in. It immediately shuffled over to me, and presented a letter to me before huddling by the fire. Lily hooted at her warningly, but the snowy owl just shrugged.

"Malfoy," the letter began. "I was kind of surprised to find a gift from you under my tree – but not as surprised as Ron was. He's turning all kinds of red now trying to figure out how to thank you without actually thanking you. As for me, I just wrote a letter. Brilliant idea with the tube map and pass; if my Aunt and Uncle ever let me out of the house, I'll have a lot of use for that this summer. Thanks, and thanks for Ron's gift too. Sincerely, Harry Potter." I smirked, then saw the postscript. "P.S.: Please give the attached to your Godfather?" Wordlessly, I handed what looked like a Christmas card to the obviously-surprised Potions Master.

"Professor Snape," he read aloud. "I hope you and Draco are having excellent holidays. Hogwarts is not quite the same without you here. Merry Christmas! Sincerely, Harry Potter." He paused. "What the Devil is going on here!" he asked, and I sincerely hope he didn't expect an answer. Lily hooted at him, and he moved back to cook some lunch, but I noticed he didn't toss the card in the fire like I expected him to.


	14. Getting Back to Hogwarts

**Chapter 14: Getting Back to Hogwarts**

_**In which Hagrid has a Dragon, Neville Longbottom grows a spine,**_

_**and Draco finally gets detention.**_

"62. 'It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission' no longer applies to Specialist Schwarz._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

In hindsight, I should have realized we'd get caught. Anything as risky as smuggling a bleeding Norweigan Ridgeback to the top of the Astronomy tower on a school night was destined to attract Filch, and despite my general ability to talk my way out of anything, I didn't have much of a rapport with the caretaker or that damn cat of his.

Potter had shown little interest in meeting after the holidays, as promised, and I ended up following him and Granger – Weasley, for some reason, was in the hospital wing – one night to insist he not put it off any further. They tromped down to Hagrid's house – my suspicions regarding the timeline of Potter's invisibility cloak were confirmed, but apparently they'd forgotten about leaving footprints in the snow.

Anyway, I got to the hut just in time to watch that half-giant loading what to all intents and purposes appeared to be a baby dragon into a crate. Then I felt a tapping on my shoulder.

"You shouldn't be here, Malfoy," came the unsure voice of... Neville Longbottom? Really? "If you get them in trouble, I'll fight you." He put up his fists – and having seen his so-called wandwork, the fists were likely his most formidable weapons. I put out my hands in a placating gesture – I'd seen Hagrid use it on small, frightened animals in Care of Magical Creatures, so it would probably work on Longbottom.

"You've got it all wrong, Longbottom," I drawled. "I don't care about the dragon, I'm just trying to keep an appointment." He kept his fists up.

"I don't believe you!" he said, then the look of confusion on his face grew. "Dragon?" he queried. "What dragon?" At that point, the door opened, and Potter and Granger stepped out, carrying the crate between them. "Harry? Hermione? What are you doing?" Longbottom asked. I rolled my eyes.

"Look, I'll prove I don't care," I said. "Longbottom, go help Potter on his end. I'll take this end with Granger." I moved to help the other struggling first-years carry the crate, which occasionally rocked with a growling noise. I glared at the gamekeeper. "Hagrid, you owe me one." He nodded, mildly dumbfounded.

I don't know how we managed to make it to the Astronomy tower without being seen, or at least, heard. Four dragonhide-clad gentlemen on broomsticks can't be entirely unobtrusive, either, I imagine. Still, somehow, we managed it. We were even congratulating ourselves on our daring feat when we left the tower... right into Filch.

"Oh, my, we are in trouble," he said, and I'd swear, he managed to drawl better than Snape or I ever could.

Which is why I found myself, two nights later, standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest – in which students were not actually allowed to go, I reminded myself, lest the name need to be changed to the Permitted Forest – with a lantern in hand, wand out, with Potter standing next to me leading the largest boarhound I'd seen in many years.

"I suppose you should probably know, Fang's a great ruddy coward," Hagrid said. "But you'll be alright. Not much in there that will bother you with him around." I gulped a bit – not being able to use too much combat magic without blowing my secret was going to be a pain here, but at least it wasn't the full moon. I didn't want to deal with werewolves just yet.

"Now, Neville, Hermione, you're with me – we'll go this way," he pointed vaguely left. "And Harry, you and Malf- Draco go that way," he gestured vaguely right. "We're looking for whatever is killing Unicorns." Ah, yes. I'd forgot his cunning plan to send barely-trained first-years after whatever could take down a fully-grown Unicorn. No wonder I'd run screaming in the first ten minutes last time.

The Forbidden Forest was dark – as you would, you know, expect a forest to be at night. But this was really dark. It made Wiltshire at night look positively bright, and all of a sudden I actually felt eleven again, seeing dark figures behind every tree and bush. A twig snapped and I almost bolted, but continued forward. I had the wand. I had the power. I would not have the name Draco Malfoy be synonymous with cowardice. Combat pragmatism, certainly, but not outright cowardice. Besides, I snorted, allowing a little bit of the old prejudice to flow back to me, I was a Wizard. I was better than this low fear.

"Look," Potter said, pointing to a rivulet of silvery substance on the ground. "What do you think that is?" Like flowing mercury, it ran across the forest floor. I shivered, masking my fear with my usual arrogance.

"Haven't you been paying attention in Potions, Potter?" I asked. "That's Unicorn blood. It's on the list of Restricted or Forbidden Potions Ingredients on something like page ten of our Potions book," I added. He shook his head.

"I knew I should have read the introduction," he admitted. I stared at him in disbelief.

"If you were wondering why Professor Snape thinks you're an arrogant toerag, that's probably a good place to start looking for an answer," I said, voice conveying my tone of surprise. He grinned.

"You're probably right," he said, then the smile faded. "So, if this is Unicorn blood," he started, and I finished for him.

"Then yeah, whatever's killing Unicorns should be down this way a bit," I said, and with a mutual shudder, we were off, following the trail across the ground for what seemed like miles until we saw it – a dying Unicorn, laying in a hollow.

Suddenly, Potter screamed, dropped his wand and clutched his head.

"Potter?" I asked, wand out. Fang, freed from the leash, sniffed the air in front of him and ran, barking all the way, as fast as he could in the other direction. "Potter, what is it? What's there?" He just screamed louder, and fell to the ground clutching his head. From the dark space behind the Unicorn, a cloaked figure rose, silvery blood dripping from its mouth. "Who's there?" I asked, leveling my wand at the figure, and then I saw, from the darkness under the hood, red eyes illuminating a pale face, and a wand of his own in his hand.

Oh, shit, said my eleven-year-old mind.

Voldemort, my rational eighteen-year-old mind told me.

Oh, SHIT, my eleven-year-old mind reiterated.

Yes, actually, my rational eighteen-year-mind agreed.

I froze, unable to cope with the sight before my eyes. Not yet, not yet, not yet, I thought. I'm not ready yet. I can't... and then I heard the sounds of cracking bone and slithering scales, heard the gasp as the air left Charity Burbage's lungs, and dropped to my knees.

"_Protego,_" I whispered, feeling the flickering shield appear between two small boys and the Dark Lord Voldemort, and knowing it would do no good. A Shield Charm, no matter how strong, could not block the Killing Curse. I wasn't ready for this, my mind wasn't prepared enough, and I said a silent whisper of regret and apology to my parents, who would be weeping by this time tomorrow at the loss of their son.

And then I saw my father's face, stern and proud, clear as if he were directly in front of me.

"Get off the ground, Draco," he chided, and I could almost feel the click of his cane on the ground. "You're a Malfoy, one of the oldest families in Europe. It's not fitting for you to kneel like some common servant, even in the face of Death itself." Then the vision was gone, but the resolve it gave me poured through my legs, and I raised myself to my feet. Dispelling the Shield Charm – it would do no good – I put a haughty look on my face and glared at the Dark Lord, daring him to kill me.

He raised his wand, and it seemed as though I would be obliged. Then a large creature leapt between us, rearing up on hind legs and lashing out at the Dark Lord. I heard at least one good crack as the Centaur's hooves impacted the Dark Lord's face, and then he fled. As he left us, Potter uncurled, the pain in his head clearly gone.

"Harry Potter," the Centaur said, bending down to help him up. "It is not safe for you in the forest just now." I put my wand away, and grabbed Potter's for him. Hmm, holly. Not bad for defense work. No idea what the core was, of course. I kept thinking little things like that, which my rational mind was explaining calmly was a sign of emotional trauma. As per usual, I put my rational mind and my panicking mind together in a small partitioned mental area and let them fight it out.

"And you," the Centaur continued. "You are unharmed?" His voice was noticeably less warm to me than it was to Potter, but I suppose not everyone can be the Boy-Who-Lived. I was okay with that, as not everybody would grow up to inherit millions, either. Worries about life being fair were for other people.

"I'm fine," I rasped, sucking in air. I was most assuredly not fine, mentally and emotionally, but the Centaur was asking about physical well-being, I assumed, and I was indeed unharmed. The Centaur certainly thought it was enough. He turned back to Potter, who was on his feet by now.

"Come, I'll escort you two to safety," the Centaur said. I vaguely recognized him, then, as Firenze, the Divination professor after Trelawny got sacked during Umbridge's reign. Potter and I followed him, and it was the Boy-Who-Lived who asked the first question.

"What was that thing? Was it a person? A monster?" Firenze's eyes narrowed.

"A monster indeed, to do something so monstrous," he said. "To kill a Unicorn... a Unicorn's blood will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death," he said, and I was eerily reminded of my Potions book, "But to slay a Unicorn is such a vile act that, from the moment the blood touches your lips, you will have a cursed life, a half-life."

"But why would someone do something like that?" Potter asked, and I had to agree with his line of questioning, even if my question was something more "Why would anybody subject themselves to that?" Firenze shook his head.

"Someone who knew he would not have to take the consequences on himself, perhaps," he mused, "Or someone already living in a half-living, half-dead state." He paused, looking up at the stars. "Can you think of no one whom that describes?" he asked.

"The Dark Lord," I said, at the same time as Potter said, "Voldemort." I shuddered, the memories too fresh now to resist fear of the damn name.

"So that thing... that was Voldemort?" Potter asked. I didn't have to. Firenze nodded his agreement, still half-staring at the stars. "But why would Voldemort come here?" he continued. "What could possibly be at Hogwarts that..." and then he paused, because Potter was not dumb, oh no. Just a little slow on the uptake.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he said, and Firenze and I both nodded our agreement.

"Voldemort wants to live again," Firenze said.

"Live forever, you mean," I countered, and he paused before nodding again.

"Yes, that too," the Centaur agreed. We had reached the edge of the Forest, and Hagrid, Granger, Longbottom and that bloody cowardly dog were all there.

"Alright, Harry, Draco?" Hargrid asked. Harry nodded. I scowled.

"We found what's been killing the Unicorns," I said, flatly, then walked past Hagrid, fully out of the forest. Hagrid looked up sharply, or as sharply as one could with that head of hair of his.

"Well, what was it?" Hagrid asked Potter. He gulped.

"Voldemort," Firenze said, simply, to Hagrid, Longbottom and Granger's gasps. I was impressed; by this time first year before, Longbottom would have fainted at the Dark Lord's name. Now he merely looked like he was about to wet himself. Well, I couldn't blame him. I resolved to check my own undergarments once my panicked mind and rational mind had finished duking it out.

"Harry Potter, this is where I leave you," Firenze told Potter. "You are safe now, with Hagrid. Be well," he continued. I wasn't expecting him to say goodbye to me. Not that I cared. I swear.

"And you, Draco Malfoy," he said. "The stars are quite confused about your life." He sounded half-puzzled, half amused. "Live it well." Then, after a comment on the brightness of Mars to Hagrid, he bounded off into the forest in a clatter of hooves.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: For some inexplicable reason, this chapter contained the line "Then the head-crabs sprang on us and aboadqjhhqkjwerht" after the note about the unicorn blood making a half-life. Just a bit of insight into how I write, yes? -mb**


	15. Means, Motive and Opportunity

**Chapter 15: Means, Motive and Opportunity**

_**In which Hagrid takes a vacation, and Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy learn of the Way Past Fluffy. Eventually, anyway.**_

"175. We do not 'charge into battle, naked, like the Celts'._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

"Potter, I was wondering something," I said. Actually, I was wondering how long my Godfather would let me chat across the aisle with the Boy-Who-Lived, but for the moment he seemed distracted. Apparently, his owl needed much preening time, and he was assisting her. Potter raised an eyebrow back – clearly, he had been paying some attention to Professor Snape in class, if not to Potions.

"Yeah?" he said. "Hurry; Ron's almost done chopping the ginger root." I nodded; Granger and I had finished with ginger root some time before and she was busy carefully measuring the powdered mandrake.

"How did Hagrid get a dragon's egg in the first place?" I asked, as quietly as I could. "It's not like they're common trade items." I wrinkled my nose. "Hell, they're illegal enough that my father would likely have trouble getting them."

"He said he'd gotten it off a bloke at the pub in Hogsmeade," Potter said, shrugging. "I didn't really give it much thought."

"Well, that's convenient," Weasley said, done with his ginger root and joining in the conversation. "Ow!" he added as my Godfather smacked him upside the head on his way to the back of the room. Seamus, apparently, had bypassed the entire explosion portion of his usual Potions routine, and the silence must have been worrisome to the Potions Master.

"What's convenient?" Granger asked. I rolled my eyes. When did I become part of this discussion group? I just wanted a answer from Potter.

"That what Hagrid wants more than anything in the world is a dragon," Potter said, "And someone shows up who just happens to have one handy?" Granger gasped.

"We need to ask him right after Potions!" she said, bossily. "Eep!" she added, as my Godfather's large nose appeared between her and me.

"Yes. AFTER Potions," Professor Snape said, very quietly. "And if you two don't shut up, I will be forced to dock points. That would be... unfortunate," he added, glaring at Granger. I smiled. Distractions aside, our potion would, of course, be top of the class. The only deciding factor now was who would get the highest score on the end-of-term test.

**-o-o-o-**

But Hagrid was not to be found in his cabin, or so said Potter when we ran across each other in the Great Hall at dinner. Theo had been on my case about hanging out with Gryffindors lately, and I didn't want to deal with any more of his eleven-year-old egomaniac crap.

"I wonder where he went off to?" I asked aloud. My question was answered by the headmaster, who was walking into the hall behind us.

"I'm afraid our gamekeeper has been busy preparing for his trip to Romania, upon which he left this morning," Professor Dumbledore said. Potter's face fell.

"Please, Professor Dumbledore, do you know when he'll be back?" Potter asked. I cursed inwardly. I was pretty sure we were on a timeline here, and I was trying to speed it up as best I could. The fickle finger of fate seemed determined to fight me at every turn, however.

"Oh, a few weeks or so," Dumbledore said. "He's visiting a friend, you see," he added, winking at first Potter, than me. Merciful Salazar's ghost, the man knew everything. I want to grow up to place chess like he does, omniscient bastard. "You can see him when he returns, of course," the headmaster added.

**-o-o-o-**

"En garde, Draco, and may I saw what a pleasure it is to have you back among the Slytherins?" Blaise began, lifting his own smallsword in a mock salute. I hefted my Christmas present, still getting used to the weight. I'd learned to swordfight with foil and epee, which were nothing like this blade – but it was light, at least, for a full-sized sword. I would have to practice with it, of course.

"I wasn't aware I'd been missed by anyone less anal-retentive than Theo," I shot back, saluting the dark-skinned boy back. "Or should I have questioned your anal-retentivity?" I asked him, blocking an initial swipe with my own blade. Blaise's handsome face worked itself carefully into a scowl, as if afraid it might stick that way.

"Nothing to worry about," he grunted. "I was concerned, was all. Appearences, of course." He came around for another swipe, feinted and thrust, and I felt the cushioning charm at the tip of the blade impact against my chest. I gripped my own sword with two hands, intent on getting used to the weight and knowing I could grow into it later if need be. Blaise was clearly already used to his, wielding the light weapon like a claymore.

"Touché," I admitted, getting into the fight once more. In my mind, I broke down the room – the Slytherin common room, abandoned in favor of lunch in the Great Hall – into rings around me. Intent on not letting Blaise into my inner ring, I adopted a higher guard, unconsciously mimicking his treating the smallsword like a broadsword or claymore.

"The first of many," Blaise boasted, but it took him another three minutes to get past my guard this time. One block was a little too slow – I just wasn't used to the weight of the sword – and I was on my arse again. Acknowledging the hit, I stabbed the ground and levered myself to my feat. Granger's book was helping my swordplay, at least as far as Muggle physics went, and both Blaise and I had agreed not to use lightening charms on the swords for fear we'd become dependent on them.

With an aggressive cry, I launched myself at Blaise, closing the distance to his inner guard before he could stop me. We locked swords together above our heads, and I glared at him from inches away.

"Can't hit me like this," he taunted. I let one side of my mouth curl into a smile.

"Are we fencing or fighting?" I asked, eliciting a confused look on his face.

"Fighting?" he said, so I head-butted him, slamming the cushioned end of my sword into his chest.

"Point!" he gasped, and I let him up.

"Shall we go again?" I asked, leaning on my sword as if I hadn't the slightest concern about the other armed man in front of me. Blaise, to his credit, grinned.

"What are you really up to with those Gryffindors?" He asked, drawing his sword back in a guard position. He gestured for me to do the same, flicking his fingers toward himself in the universally-recognized gesture for 'bring it.'

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said, raising my blade up into the skyward guard again. We each tried a few more exploratory attacks, each blocking the other's and not moving out of the farthest guard for either one. As we were taking a breather, he managed to respond.

"Try me," he said, panting. Used to it or not, almost ten minutes of swordplay will tire even the best-conditioned eleven-year-old. "You'd be pleasantly surprised what I believe." I raised a perfect eyebrow. Shrines will be raised in future Slytherin dormitories to that moment, that perfect raised eyebrow.

"Potter, Weasley and Granger have been tracking a certain object, capable of granting eternal life to the bearer, which is hidden in this very castle," I said, taking another breath. "The object is in danger by the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell, who is not the stuttering coward he makes himself out to be but instead the most recent convert to the Death Eaters, followers of the late and, outside many of this house's parents, un-lamented Dark Lord Voldemort. With me so far?" Blaise managed to avoid dropping his sword, and nodded.

"Quirrell wants to use this item, of which I have been forbidden to speak by certain Potions Masters in the service of the item's defense, to ressurect the Dark Lord, where he will surely be rewarded for his loyal servitude and for his damning himself to a cursed half-life by drinking Unicorn blood in the meantime." I grinned.

"The item is guarded by, among other things, the natures of which we have not yet worked out, a three-headed dog named 'Fluffy'." I bowed, unable to bring my sword up into a salute. "And that's where we're at now. Congratulations, consider yourself sworn to secrecy on the subject."

"Right," said Blaise, obviously not too sure as to whether I was to be believed. "Well, let me know how that goes," he added, grinning.

**-o-o-o-**

And then came the day. Hagrid had returned, and Potter's crew had immediately gone down to see him. When I met with him during supper, he was brimming with rage I hadn't seen before until his fifth year.

"Hagrid got the dragon egg of a cloaked person in the pub, who was very curious as to how he'd raised Fluffy," Potter explained. "Quirrell knows how to get past Fluffy now – apparently, all you do is play a little music." I shook my head in rueful non-surprise.

"So you've told Dumbledore, yeah?" I said, assuming Granger, at least, would have run straight to the headmaster with something like this. To my surprise, she shook her head.

"He got called away to the Ministry today," she said. "He won't be back until tomorrow." Weasley was scowling harder than Potter.

"Quirrell's going to steal the stone, tonight," the red-haired youngest boy spat. Potter and Granger nodded.

"Which means we have to go get it ourselves first," Potter added. "You wanted in on this, Draco," he said, using my first name for probably the first time. I nodded.

"The corridors are off-limits by nine," I said. "Can you meet me outside the third-floor corridor at 9:15?" They nodded.

"How are you going to get there, Malfoy?" Weasley asked. "You don't have the cloak," and Granger elbowed him – good to see her keeping secrets, after all – but he continued, "And you better not get us caught this time." He scowled, and I shook my head.

"I don't need an invisibility cloak to hide," I said. "And I have my ways." Potter nodded.

"It's settled, then," he said. "We're going for the stone tonight."


	16. The Philosopher's Stone

**Chapter 16: The Philosopher's Stone**

_**In which the first-years are Big Damn Heroes,**_

_**Draco catches the best snitch ever, and Neville Longbottom is cool under fire.**_

"212. Must not go on nine deployments in six years that require a security clearance that I don't have, even if the Army tells me repeatedly that I have one and I have no reason to question them._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I admit I was expecting to get caught, especially as I didn't bother to involve my Godfather in this particular late-night excursion. By nine, the inside of Hogwarts was quite dark, and sneaking around would have been impossible without a light, especially as it was the night of the new moon. Being a Slytherin, I came prepared, however. A Hand of Glory grants light only to its bearer – therefore, I had plenty of light and could not be caught.

I did have a close call with Mrs. Norris – bloody cats seeing in the dark and all that – but managed to lock her in the kitchens near the Hufflepuff common room before she could follow me. Salazar-damned House Elves are probably making that cat bloated by now.

Nevertheless, I made it to the third-floor corridor with a minute or so to spare, and was leaning against a wall, tapping my foot impatiently when Potter, Granger, Weasley and Longbottom threw off the invisibility cloak by Fluffy's door.

"I wasn't aware we were recruiting," I drawled, extinguishing the Hand of Glory. Weasley scowled.

"We let you come with us, didn't we, Malfoy?" he said. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Neville was afraid we were going to lose more points for Gryffindor," he said. "So we had to tell him what we were doing or hex him, and I didn't want to hex a friend." I nodded.

"Too late to do anything about it now," I agreed. "What now?" Potter grinned.

"Hermione, will you do the honors?" She stepped authoritatively up to the door and tapped the lock with her wand.

"_Alohomora!_" she incanted, and the lock sprang open. She smirked and blew across the top of her wand like a gunfighter in those Muggle westerns my Godfather treated like a guilty pleasure. "Shall we?" she said, gesturing for us to go.

Potter led the way. I supposed I should probably be annoyed at being relegated to sidekick, but in the end, at least I was on the winning side this time. I hoped, anyway.

Fluffy was already asleep, an enchanted harp plucking away at some lullaby. Granger made her way over to the trap door, pulling it open.

"Down here," she said. "And wands out, boys," she added bossily. "There's bound to be more than just a three-headed dog guarding the Stone." In hindsight, she was absolutely right, but we were distracted just then by the harp's sudden silence.

"Into the hole!" Potter yelled, pushing Weasley down the trap door as Granger made the leap herself. I started singing, softly, hoping to buy us time.

"Once, a jolly swagman camped beside a billabong," sang, wishing I knew something other than a Muggle song every child seems to pick up at some point. To my surprise, Longbottom joined in as well, his voice cracking less as he sang a decent harmony to my lead. Potter smiled, jumping in the trap door as well, and Longbottom and I continued the song through the last verse.

"And his ghost may be heard as you ride beside the billabong," we chanted, poising ourselves over the trap door, then after a grin at each other, Longbottom and I both yelled out, "You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me!" and dove, laughing maniacally, into the hole as Fluffy roared in rage.

"You two are completely starking mad," Weasley observed as we landed in the waiting tendrils of a cushy, kudzu-esque plant. Longbottom looked around, confused.

"Hermione, why are we sitting in a bunch of Devil's Snare?" he asked. The bushy-haired witch facepalmed as Weasley started panicking, letting the vine wrap around him even faster.

"Of course," she said. "And how do we get past it?" Longbottom tilted his head, as if thinking.

"Fire or sunlight," he said, having clearly come to a conclusion. Neville Longbottom apparently had a knack for Herbology.

Good for him, I thought, chanting "_Lumos Solem!_" along with Potter while Granger conjured some form of bluebell-looking flames. Longbottom didn't manage to conjure anything, and Weasley's wand-arm was pinned to his side, but the three spells did the job. The vine curdled – literally curdled, like dying spiders and rancid milk – and dropped us past it to the castle floor. I dusted myself off.

"And what's our next challenge?" I asked, grinning at Potter. "I should probably have brought my sword," I added, though I realized trying to chop through the cursed plant would have put me in the same situation as Weasley, and that was never going to happen. "Good thing I didn't," I amended at Granger's amused look.

"Good thing Neville pays attention in Herbology," she said, and the Heir of Longbottom blushed. Weasley, having finally shed the remaining vines from his clothes, cocked an ear.

"Does anyone hear... buzzing?" he asked, and we all listened as well. Potter followed the sounds through an archway, and we, of course, followed Potter. The sight of a thousand flying keys greeted us, and a locked door on the other end of the room said something about their purpose.

"Which one fits it?" I wondered aloud. Potter shook his head, then pointed.

"That one, with the broken wing, maybe?" he said. "If Quirrell's already been here..." but I was way ahead of him. I grabbed one of the brooms from against the wall, tossing another to Potter.

"Race you to the Snitch," I said, and we were off again. I admit, during the earlier game against Hufflepuff, I hadn't felt anything like this (even though I caught the Snitch then and we absolutely flattened them, making up quite a bit for our earlier loss of three hundred points. Poor Hufflepuff House.

But it was good to be racing against Potter again, even if this time we were using the school's decrepit old Cleansweeps, and I wondered where the darkness in me had fled. The ambition and certain moral flexibility that made me a Slytherin was still here, of course, but I wondered, as Potter and I chased the little winged key around the tower-shaped room, when I had stopped being an asshole.

I still wasn't nice enough to let Potter catch the key, though, and with a howl of triumph, I landed, Potter landing a second later.

"You do know," he said, catching his breath, "That I will absolutely flatten you next year." I smiled. It wasn't an idle boast; I'd seen the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match, and Potter flew rings around their seventh-year seeker. They'd have to replace him next year, and even with Hufflepuff sporting fourth-year Cedric Diggory in the Seeker spot, Potter and I were the best.

"We'll see," I said, keying the lock and turning it. "What in Salazar's name?" I wondered. Surprisingly, it was Weasley who answered.

"It's a chessboard," he said, in awe, and indeed, the giant statues, armed to the teeth, could only be a chessboard. "We have to play our way across." Indeed, there were several empty spots on our side of the board. Without even waiting for Potter, Weasley took command.

"Harry, you take the King spot," he pointed toward the center of the board. "Neville, mate, I'm sorry, but take that pawn spot on the end." Longbottom grudgingly walked off toward the front lines, shivering noticably but unwilling to let down his friends. "Hermione, take the King's side bishop, and Malfoy, the Queen's side castle," he added. I nodded, jogging to the Queen's side of the board. I could absolutely play a Rook. Now I really did miss my sword.

Weasley leapt up on the back of one of the horses, disgorging the Knight who'd been sitting there, and we waited. White moved first, and the game began, a massacre of marble and steel. I took a pawn halfway through, and thankfully I only had to push it over, because I didn't have much on me in the way of taking anything down. I have to admit, for a such a book-dumb guy, he was a Salazar-blessed genius on the chessboard.

Finally, the game came to a close. Weasley had managed to walk Longbottom across the board, making him a queen, and he and Granger and I nearly had the White side's king trapped. Only their queen was still causing havoc, and if Weasley was Gryffindor enough, there was a way out of that, too.

"Neville," he said, "I'm going to move. When I do, the queen will capture me, and you'll be free to mate the king." Granger balked.

"Ron, don't!" she said. He shook his head.

"It's the only way to go forward," he said. "And if I don't, they'll take Harry in three moves anyway," he added, and a quick look at the board showed he was right. There were two white pawns far too close to the black side of the board for my liking – why hadn't I noticed those earlier? I shook my head.

"That's chess," I said, and it looked like Potter understood. Weasley moved his knight to check the white king, and flinched only a moment as the queen smote him to the ground. Granger tried to move to help him, but Potter's voice kept her back.

"Don't forget, we're still playing," he admonished. "Neville, finish it." Longbottom walked across the board, placing himself in a position that gave the king literally nowhere to go.

"Check mate," he said, voice shaking, and the king shattered into dust. After checking to make sure Weasley was alive, I began examining the space behind the white side of the board.

"Neville, stay with Ron," Potter said, noticing as I did that Longbottom's legs were shaking too hard to go on. "We'll be back for you." Longbottom nodded, sitting down next to the red-headed chessmaster and trying very hard to catch his breath.

As we stepped into the next room, flames appeared before us and behind us, and Snape's logic puzzle – I assumed it was my Godfather's, anyway, as it involved potions – appeared on the table in front of us. I shook my head.

"Potions?" I said. Granger disagreed.

"Logic," she said, reading the note to herself and busying her mind with the odd puzzle. Finally, she pointed to the smallest vial. "That one should take people through," she said, "And this one," she added, pointing to a larger container, "Will let us go back through the flames behind us." Thankfully, there was enough of that to serve all of us, if we wanted. I nodded.

"Okay, Potter. You go through," I advised, and he nodded. "You're the only one with a proven track record of surviving the Dark Lord, so you should do just fine against his minion." Granger hugged him, crying, but it looked like she agreed. Privately, I just assumed that, since Potter had lived through the final year-one conflict the first time, he'd do just fine this time.

"Fine, Draco. You and Hermione go back through the flames behind us," he ordered. "Get Neville and Ron out of here and go get help. Get a Professor you can trust and have them get a message to Dumbledore." I nodded.

"I'll get my Godfather," I said, and Potter agreed. "Good luck, Potter." I took a swig of the cold potion, passing the bottle to Granger before I walked through the flames unharmed. Granger and I ran back to Longbottom and Weasley. As usual, the bushy-haired witch took charge.

"Draco, go grab one of the brooms and get Professor Snape," she said. "I'll keep these two calm." At my surprised look, she shrugged. "I'm shite on a broom," she admitted, sheepishly, as if loathe to admit there was anything she wasn't excellent at. I grinned.

"Nice to know I'm better than you at something besides Potions," I quipped, running back toward the broom room before she could curse in indignition. I grabbed a broom, ducking through the doorway beneath the keys and pointing my wand at the Devil's Snare.

"_Incendio!_" I intoned, watching in pyromaniacal glee as the murderous plant withered and died around the very real flames I conjured. Bluebells my aristocratic arse. I jumped on the broom, launching a blasting hex at the trap door as I flew toward it. "_Bombarda Maxima!_" I yelled, blowing out the corridor doorway as I shot past a very surprised Fluffy. I rocketed down the halls, feeling for all the world like an auror chasing a dragon, and managed, despite the dark, to make it down to the dungeons before braking to a halt next to my Godfather's office.

"Godfather! Professor Snape! It's an emergency!" I bellowed, not caring who heard me as I banged on the doors. The scowling face of the Potions Master appeared as the door opened, but as he saw me, his tone was one of surprise.

"Draco?" my ordinarily unflappable Godfather asked. "What the devil is going on here!"


	17. End of the Adventure and End of Term

**Chapter 17: End of the Adventure and End of Term**

_**In which Snape reveals a secret, Dumbledore saves the day,**_

_**and Draco Malfoy says goodbye to his fellow first-years.**_

"91. I am not authorized to initiate Jihad._"_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

My Godfather, having heard my wild tale, wasted little time.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" he bellowed, and a beautiful silver doe sprang forth from his wand, cantering about the dungeons. It looked completely out of place, really – and I'd not known Professor Snape could conjure a Patronus at all. Perhaps he could teach me one day.

"Tell Albus Dumbledore this," he said. "Quirrell in the Stone room. Potter has followed. Three students injured at the chessboard." The doe lowered her head in a nod and bounded toward the stairs while I just boggled.

"I didn't know you could conjure a corporeal Patronus," I said, and my Godfather stared at me. I could feel the first tendrils of a Legilimency invasion poke against my Occlumency shields, but he pulled back quickly.

"It is a secret I would like to continue to keep," he said, gesturing for me to follow him to the third floor. I did, broom slung over my shoulder. "And I will thank you never to speak of it to anyone," he added, looking sternly at me.

"I'll keep your secrets, Godfather," I said. "You keep mine, after all." He nodded, and we continued toward the corridor where Fluffy – and the injured students – waited.

"_Bombarda Maxima,_" he intoned, blowing a hole in the wall and freeing Fluffy. "Go find Hagrid," he ordered, and the three-headed dog happily obeyed, leaping from the castle with apparently little injury.

"Godfather," I warned, "If you can slow our fall, it would be best." He raised an eyebrow.

"Took care of the Devil's Snare, then, did you?" he asked, rhetorically. "Very well," he added, pointing his wand down the whole and casting a cushioning charm. We moved briskly past the room with the keys and onto the chessboard.

"Professor Snape! Thank Merlin!" Granger said, gasping. "Neville's gone into some sort of panic attack and Ron is still unconscious!" My Godfather rushed over to the panicking boy and handed him something.

"Drink this, quickly," he barked, and Granger helped him bring the small vial to his lips. Longbottom's breathing slowed to a more healthy level, and he relaxed. As the Potions Master was kneeling over Weasley, checking his wounds, a crack of Apparition – apparently impossible inside Hogwarts, but just as apparently not – and the crackling of flames announced the arrival of the Headmaster.

"Come, Severus," he said, "Let me see the boy." Albus Dumbledore joined my Godfather at Weasley's side. "A mild concussion, possibly," he said. "I think it's best you get these two to Madam Pomfrey," he added, gesturing to Longbottom as well. "And Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy, I suggest you get yourselves checked out as well." He straightened up, drawing what I knew to be the Elder Wand, and walked towards the flames, which parted as he arrived.

"I must go on alone," he said, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore walked forward to do battle with a Death Eater. Unconsciously parrotting a Muggle celebrity, I commented on Quirrell's likelihood of surviving that encounter.

"I pity the fool," I said, shaking my head as Granger laughed.

**-o-o-o-**

"So, Potter," I said, looking at the newly-awakened boy in the Hospital wing. "How was playing the hero?" The Boy-Who-Lived, covered with just a few more scars than usual, smiled ruefully.

"I don't know how much I liked it," he admitted, before grabbing a Chocolate Frog from the pile people had left by his hospital bed. "I missed the Quidditch match, didn't I?" he asked, and I nodded. "How bad was it?"

"460 to 120, Hufflepuff," I admitted. "But look on the bright side – it was only Hufflepuff, so your house is still in third place for the House Cup," I added, then took a moment to buff my nails on my robes. "Slytherin is, of course, in first, having beaten Ravenclaw by something like six hundred points," I said. Potter boggled. "Apparently, their Seeker fell off their broom during the first five minutes. I just let Seamus, Blaise and Flint rack up the score before I even bothered looking for the Snitch." Potter hung his head, moaning something about incompetent Ravenclaws. When he looked up, I met his eyes.

"I'll be out of this bed with plenty of time for practice before next year," Potter said, and I saw, with that determination, he definitely would be.

"You better," I said. "I'll be annoyed if I don't have a challenge next year." I smiled, and he smiled as well. I stepped away from the bed, waving to the invalid as I turned around and was confronted with the bearded figure of Albus Dumbledore. I bit back a gasp, but met his eyes.

"He's coming back, isn't he, Professor?" I asked, and could feel Potter's eyes on both of us as the headmaster nodded. There was no doubt of whom I was speaking. Then I felt the first tendrils of Legilimancy on the edges of my mind, and began to put up my shields. The first tentative touches let me know, however, that Dumbledore's mental prowress – at least offensively – was beyond my Godfather's by an order of magnitude.

Instead of shielding, I concentrated all my mental reserves on one thought. _That's rude, Professor_, I thought at him, and felt the tendrils withdraw in surprise. Dumbledore winked at me.

"My apologies, Mister Malfoy," he said, smiling, as I walked past him out the door.

**- o-o-o-**

The Great Hall was filled to the brim with students for the leaving feast, and all of us were excited. Even Potter was out of his hospital bed and smiling with his friends at the Gryffindor table. At the Slytherin table, I was the center of attention, having ensured that Slytherin, despite our losses, was only forty points behind Ravenclaw for the House Cup. Next year, we knew, we'd do better. Poor Gryffindor, with 340 points, trailed our house's 500 and Ravenclaw's 540. Only Hufflepuff, with 290 points after not quite recovering from the Black Friday fight, were behind them.

"Ahem," the Headmaster said from behind his owl-shaped podium. "Another year gone, and the House Cup points stand as follows. In fourth place with 290 points, Hufflepuff! In third place with 340 points, Gryffindor! In second with an ambitious and even 500, Slytherin! And in first place, with 540 points, Ravenclaw House!" There was cheering from the blue and bronze-bedecked Ravenclaw table.

"Yes, yes, well done Ravenclaw, well done," the Headmaster continued, winking. "But I have a few last-minute points to award in reference to an event most of you have been discussing for weeks, despite its complete secrecy." There were murmurs all over the Great Hall at that announcement.

"First, to Mister Neville Longbottom, for showing true Gryffindor bravery and a singular dedication to academics in the face of mortal peril, I award Gryffindor House 50 points." I looked over to the Gryffindor table, where Longbottom looked shell-shocked. I pointed at him quietly, and Blaise slipped me five Galleons.

"Fine," he whispered. "But no bet on the rest of them." I grinned, nodding my agreement as he then turned around and made the same bet against Theo Nott, this time on my side of the argument.

"To Mister Ronald Weasley, for courageous sacrifice and the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen these many years, I award Gryffindor House 50 points," the Headmaster continued. I smiled thinly. I could see where this was going, since it had happened last time around. The Gryffindors erupted into cheers, sitting pretty at 440 points. I shook my head, knowing where this was going next.

"To Miss Hermione Granger, for use of cool logic in the face of fire and willingness to stand by her friends even when she could no longer go on, I award Gryffindor House 50 points," he said, and the realization that they were just ten points behind hated Slytherin made the Gryffindor table explode.

"And to Mister Harry Potter," he continued, and the room went silent, doing the math. Fifty more points would tie Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, shoving Slytherin House back into third. "For pure nerve, outstanding moral fiber and the willingness to defy an adult servant of darkness, I award Gryffindor House 60 points."

The room exploded into chaos, and I slumped down. It was just like the headmaster to let a house win outright just because they were his favorites. Highway robbery is what it was. At the head table, I could see my Godfather scowling, and I prepared to dig into the feast anyway, proud to the end.

And then Dumbledore continued talking, and the room fell silent.

"Finally, it takes a great deal of courage to confront a fearsome enemy, especially one so far beyond a first-year student," he said. "But it takes as much courage, as well as a great heaping helping of wit and ambition, to acknowledge that a rival might be correct, and to aid him in doing the right thing." The buzzing of confusion about the Great Hall must have been music to the headmaster's ears, for he paused before continuing. When it had reached a fever pitch, he dropped his little bombshell. "Therefore, for these examples of wit, ambition and pragmatic courage shown by Draco Malfoy, I award Slytherin House 50 points."

Finally, it was my table's turn to cheer, and even Theo got in on it, completely forgetting in that moment that our success was due to me cooperating with a bunch of Gryffindors. Crabbe and Goyle were out of their seats doing the Weasley dance, not even caring that we were tied, and Seamus Finnegan slipped what looked like a Galleon coin to Blaise Zabini with a smile.

"Assuming my calculations are correct," Dumbledore continued, "And they usually are, I believe a change of decoration is in order?" The blue and bronze banners of Ravenclaw House flickered in a sudden breeze, to be replaced by red and gold Gryffindor banners evenly interspersed with the green and silver banners of Slytherin.

**- o-o-o-**

Blaise and I walked down to the Hogwarts Express together, with Crabbe, Goyle and Seamus trailing behind us, talking about Quidditch as usual. Seamus was even wearing the Ireland jersey I got him, and they were already busily making plans for summer. I shook my head, smiling.

"What is it?" Blaise asked, catching the grin. I turned to look at him.

"If you'd told me this time last year that Vince and Greg would make friends with an Irish half-blood, that I'd be on speaking terms with Gryffindors, and that Theo Nott would attempt to take over Slytherin House, I'd probably have pushed you in the lake," I admitted. He barked out a laugh.

"If you'd told me this time last year that Dumbledore would allow us to keep the swords after Flitwick found us sparring in the Charms classroom, I might have pulled you with me," he said. "Not to mention you actually hugging a Muggle-born witch at the leaving feast, and Gryffindor, at that." He shook his head. "What your father might have to say about that should definitely be worth a few days of amusement at dinner," he added. I smiled as well, but it was pasted on. I doubted that conversation would be at all amusing.

We boarded the train, and sooner, rather than later, we watched the Scottish countryside roll by on the way back to London. I had only my rucksack, having finally mastered Undetectable Extension Charms after many a night spent in the library with the hand of glory. Carrying giant luggage around, as ostentatious as it might make me look – a good thing in Slytherin, at least – was rather impractical.

All too soon, we were back in London.


	18. Family Relations

**Chapter 18: Family Relations**

_**In which Lucius Malfoy is not waiting for his son on Platform 9 and ¾.**_

"124. Two drink limit does not mean first and last. _125. Two drink limit does not mean two kinds of drinks. 126. Two drink limit does not mean the drinks can be as large as I like."_

- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

**-o-o-o-**

I stepped off the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross, looking around for my family. I saw Blaise's slightly-scary mother waiting to pick him up, and helped my room-mate pick up his luggage from the cart, seeing as I had only a little.

"Hello, Draco," Mrs. Zabini said. "I hear good things about you from Blaise." My friend looked slightly sheepish. "That must be a surprise to you," she added drolly, looking at her son. "Come along, Blaise," she said, turning to leave. "We'll work out visiting with your friend this summer later on." She glided off, and Blaise, shrugging helplessly at me, went to follow her.

Crabbe and Goyle had already disappeared by the time I turned back to the Slytherin contingent, and Theo said a brisk "Have a nice summer, Draco," before himself heading off with his parents. Seamus introduced me to his "ma" as well, his strong Irish accent coming back with a vengeance now that he was away from us heathen southerners.

I still couldn't see my father anywhere, and I was beginning to worry. Wordlessly, I waved at Granger as she and her dentist parents left the platform. I saw Potter waiting with a gaggle of red-haired witches and wizards who had to be the Weasleys, and they walked over to me on their way off the platform.

"Malfoy," the youngest Weasley male said, sticking out his hand. "I... I wanted to say thanks." I took it, sharing his father's look of confusion. "For getting me help after I got hurt, and for the Christmas gift," he clarified, clearing my confusion but increasing Arthur Weasley's. It looked like I was not going to be the only one with interesting dinnertime conversation tonight. I smiled winningly.

"Anytime," I offered, knowing it would completely confuse the family's opinion of me even further. Even the youngest, an eleven-year-old hiding behind Molly Weasley as if the sight of Harry Potter, who was still trailing along with them, was too much to bear, poked her head out to goggle. I smiled at her, and she blushed crimson – a family trait, apparently – and hid again. The Weasleys moved on, chattering amongst themselves. Abruptly, I found myself standing alone on the platform with Harry Potter.

"Not a bad year, huh, Draco?" he said. I raised my eyebrows.

"Certainly ended better than it started," I allowed, shaking his hand. "Harry." His grin widened, and I scowled. "Don't get your hopes up, it will be right back to 'Potter' next year unless you shape up at Quidditch," I said, but nothing could wipe the knowing grin off his face. Bloody Gryffindors.

And then I was alone on Platform 9 and ¾, wondering when it was that my Father would be arriving.

After an hour, I realized he wasn't coming. Heading out to the street, feeling completely out of place in robes and Slytherin colors, I held up my wand. With a crack, a huge blue double-decker bus appeared.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," the conductor, a stringy, pimply young adult read from a card. "Emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike," he added, gesturing to the badge on his chest, "And I will be your conductor for today." I got on. "Where to?" he asked, pointing me to a seat.

"Wiltshire," I said. "I'll walk from there, the manor's unplottable." He nodded.

"Ernie, we're going to Wiltshire," he told the elderly driver, and we were off with another bang. "Wiltshire should be, let's see, no ocean crossings... ten sickles and two knuts, I think." I gave him a Galleon and told him to keep the change, and he pocketed the coin.

"Wiltshire," he announced, and we were there. With transportation this fast, I thought, and this cheap, I had no idea why anyone would ever be stranded. I made a note to myself to not tell Potter about this until his tube pass had expired.

I walked up the long hill to the dark and forboding Malfoy Manor, seeing behind the iron gates the beautiful white flamingos and the stately marble walls of the manor proper. My family's home for generations, it gave me a little chill just to see it again. I walked up to the gate, grabbing at it to let me in.

Nothing happened. I rattled the gate again, thinking perhaps it had made a mistake.

"Come on, open," I said. "I'm Draco Malfoy, I live here." At the top of the hill, far beyond the gates, I saw a light pour out of the front doors of the manor house, and my blood went cold. No servant, no house elf. Just the white hair of my father, who would never stoop to walking down to the gate to let anyone in, let alone his son. I began to shiver. He was going to do it. He was going to disown me.

"Dobby," I whispered, as my father slowly made his way down the path, still some distance away. The House Elf appeared with a pop.

"Master Draco calls for Dobby?" he asked, quietly. I tossed him something from the top of my pack.

"Dobby, come find me in a month," I said. "I'd like to talk about paid employment with you." The tiny elf looked down at the object he held in his hands, and his already- bulging eyes bugged out even further.

"Master has given Dobby a sock!" he marveled, hugging the clothing to him. "Dobby is free!" He continued to nuzzle the sock as I looked, alarmed, at my father, who was striding toward the gate, his silver snake cane clicking.

"Dobby, get out of here!" I hissed, watching in horror as he continued his Dobby Slash Sock One True Pairing hugs with the shoe liner. He looked up at me.

"Draco cannot give Dobby orders," he said, "Dobby is a free elf... oh." He noticed my father, about to reach the gates, and Disapparated with a quiet pop. Not a moment too soon, either.

"Draco," my father drawled. "To what do I owe this visit?" he continued, as if I didn't live here, as if this were not the only home I'd ever known.

"I was under the impression I lived here, father," I said. I would not show him fear. It would be a weakness he would only relish. I realized then that the father I'd known, the family loyalty above all else I'd seen, had only come out after he'd realized he was wrong. I nearly shivered at that.

"Did you now?" he asked. "I'm sorry to say that, as you are no longer a member of this family as of right now," he said, and there was a pop of magic as I was officially informed, "That this is not your home any longer." I stared at him.

"You don't live here anymore, boy," he continued. "Did you think I'd take you back after you helped that Potter brat prevent our Lord's ascension? Did you think your befriending that Mudblood would go unnoticed? Did you think ignoring your mother's warning was wise? That your theft – yes, theft! – from our vault at Gringotts would go unnoticed? You have betrayed our family and all we hold dear! You are no longer a part of this family!" he thundered. Shock parted way to righteous outrage, as I stood my ground on my side of the gate, staring openly at the man who had once called himself my father.

"You're disowning me?" I asked Lucius Malfoy. "How can you justify that?" He snarled at me, and I quavered. This was a side of Lucius Malfoy I'd never seen when he was my father.

"You disowned us, boy, when you turned your back on everything this family stands for!" he said, quiet voice betraying rage. "Now get off my property before I have you arrested for trespassing," he added, nearly spitting the last bit out before turning to walk back to the house.

Only once the light had once again faded from the open doors did I allow myself to cry.

**-o-o-o-**

An hour later, I pulled myself together enough on the Wiltshire street to call the Knight Bus again. Sometime during that period, it had, inevitably, started to rain, and I was soaked to the skin. At least it hid my tear tracks, I thought.

"Where to now, kid?" Shunpike asked, either too surprised at seeing me again or just too tactful to say anything. I was betting the former. Tact didn't really seem high on Shunpike's list of attributes.

"The Leaky Cauldron," I said, voice flat for fear of betraying any emotion. "London." He relayed the information to the driver, and before he could say "Ten sickles, two knuts," I had handed him a Galleon and left the double-decker in front of the pup.

Drying charms hit me as I entered, and I was suddenly no longer soaked despite the rain, which had only gotten worse during our short hop from Wiltshire.

"Excuse me," I asked the barman. "Do you have somewhere I can change clothes?" He grunted, pointing to a bathroom next to the bar, with two signs indicating one was for witches, the other wizards. Biting back the question of what happened when a Squib needed to shit here, I changed out of my school robes into what looked almost like Muggle clothing. I didn't need to attract attention if I went anywhere.

I bought dinner with some of my last remaining cash, intending to wait until Gringotts opened the next day, withdraw some more money, and take the Knight Bus to Spinner's End. My Godfather would know what to do.

It wasn't until the next day that I realized, after a short argument with a Goblin, that without both key and adult, I couldn't get to my vault. I didn't even have enough left after dinner to rent an owl, and the odds of my Godfather entering the Leaky Cauldron at random seemed slim.

I briefly considered casting a spell, hoping the Ministry would notify my legal guardian and hoping that was still Professor Snape and not the Ministry itself, before realizing that plan required far too much hope and not enough likelihood of working.

So I stayed in the Leaky Cauldron, buying a much cheaper dinner the next night, and cleaning dishes for scraps after lunch the second day. I had no idea what I was going to do – I did eat a few of the sweets I'd stored in my rucksack; Potter had had far too many anyway – but I knew those wouldn't sustain me for long.

That night, in thanks for my cleaning or out of pity, I'm not sure which, Tom, the barman, brought me a bowl of soup.

"It's not the pea, of course," he said, "but I reckon you needed a bit of a pick me up." I ate it thankfully, briefly considering asking for more before realizing that would be assuming too much about Tom's goodwill.

"Here," said a shabby – looking stranger I'd noticed at the bar the last few days. "Let me." He dropped a few sickles on the bar – more than I had at present, I was ashamed to admit – and brought a second bowl of soup and a couple Butterbeers over to me. "Remus Lupin," he said, and then I did recognize him as the disheveled, poor Defense professor from my third year. "Eat up," he said, and handed me the soup and one of the Butterbeers, popping the other for himself.

"Now," he said, joining me at my small table. "What has a young Malfoy such as yourself begging for table scraps in the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked, friendly beyond any of my memories. I shook my head.

"I'd rather not talk about it," I said, "Though I thank you for the soup and the Butterbeer," I added. I may have been disowned, but my manners had not disowned me. "Unless, perhaps, you have an owl you could lend me?" I queried, realizing that he might be of help after all. He shook his head.

"Did you need to send a message to your family?" he asked. "Do they know you're here?" I snorted.

"They put me here," I spat. "Lucius decided I was a disgrace to the proud line of Malfoys and cast me out." I shook my head again. This was more than I wanted to admit to anyone, and the look of combined sorrow and outrage on Lupin's face compounded that. If I had too much pity, I wouldn't be able to hold back the tears, and that wouldn't do.

"It's nothing," I said, trying to brush the whole situation off. "If I can get ahold of my Godfather, he'll know what to do." Lupin sat up straight at this.

"Your Godfather?" he asked, looking confused. I nodded.

"Professor Severus Snape?" I said. "Do you know him?" A sad look passed across his face.

"I'll be right back, young one," he said. "Finish your soup," he added, before stepping into the alley behind the Cauldron. I saw a brilliant flash of light, which lasted almost a minute before departing, and Lupin returned.

We sipped Butterbeer in silence, as he seemed to be waiting for something. After a few minutes, I realized what it was, as a black-robed, greasy-haired figure walked through the door.

"Draco," said Professor Severus Snape, rare emotion evident in his voice, and I ran to him. Completely disregarding Lupin, the pubgoers and all sense of dignity, I collapsed in my Godfather's arms.

- End Part One -

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: So that's that done, then. I haven't decided whether I'll actually be writing Parts Two Through Six, though if I do, November will be the time to do it. For those of you reading this while waiting on "Disturbing the Universe" or "Evan Stronghold and the Brave New World," you'll probably be waiting a while longer (though DtU will definitely update before ESatBNW gets looked at again). For those of you who didn't drop this fic in disgust after the Three Wizarding Goats Gruff chapter, thanks for reading :) - mb**

**P.S.: If you liked the story, consider recommending it on TVTropes, yeah? FanFic recs, Harry Potter, Peggy Sue.**


	19. Next Story Up!

**Author's Note:** Go check out the sequel to "A Last Second Chance," called "Advancing to the Rearh (as in, "We're not retreating! We're advancing in a different direction!"). The first chapter is up now. Thanks for staying with me so far! - MB.


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